Four Sons of Gondor
by Cisreyyah
Summary: Under the rule of wise and noble Kings, Gondor has ascended to heights undreamed of in prior generations. But can the Kingdom of the West survive the vanity and ambition of those who control the destinies of millions? First FF, please R&R.
1. The Cast

Four Sons of Gondor

"The burden must lie now upon you and your kindred."

-Mithrandir to the newly crowned King Elessar

Excerpt from the Annals of the Imperial Family of Forth Age Gondor (circa FA 300):

**Elessar Telcontar** (TA Third Age 2931 - FA 120)

-his wife, Queen Grandmother **Arwen Undómiel** (TA 241 - ): in self imposed exile in Lothlórien

-their son, **Eldarion** (FA 02 - 225)

-his wife, **Nenfel** (98 - 234)

-their son, High King **Elaldar** (190 - ): High King of the West, King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, King of Ithilien, King of Rómenondor, King of Harondor and the Haven of Umbar, Captain of the Host of the West, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, Keeper of the Scepters of the West, North, East, and South, Guardian of the Western Scepter of Minas Anor, Shield Against the Shadow (West)

-the King's first wife, **Losloth** (203 - 267): lost in the birth of her third son, fourth child

-the King's daughter, Princess **Aldanna** (256 - ): Maiden of the Citadel

-the King's eldest son, Crown Prince **Elagor** (257 - ): _the General_; Heir Apparent, Lord of Arnor, Guardian of the Northern Scepter of Annúminas, Shield of Gondor (North)

-his wife, Princess **Celebras** (253 - ): Lady of Fornost

-their son, Prince **Turgor** (276 - )

-their second son, Prince **Barahir** (281 - )

-the King's second son, Prince **Pelatur** (263 - ): _the Griffin_; Lord Governor of Rómenondor, Guardian of the Eastern Scepter of Rómendacilbar, Shield of Gondor (East)

-his wife, Princess **Arfëa** (252 - ): Lady of Dol Amroth

-their son, Prince **Artur** (283 - )

-the King's third son, Prince **Tinsereg** (267 - ): _Losloth's Bane_; Lord Governor of Harondor

-his wife, Princess **Arientari** (268 - ): Lady of Maeglad, woman of Harad, her Gondorian name

-their son, Prince **Iandil** (289 - )

-the King's second wife, High Queen **Esgaler** (225 - ): High Queen of the West

-their son, Prince **Mithrim** (277 - ): Prince of Umbar, Lord of the Haven, High Captain of the Arsenal, Guardian of the Southern Scepter of Bar-en-Umbar, Shield of Gondor (South)

---


	2. Chapter 1: Poros Crossing

"It is of my personal misfortune and deepest regret to announce that the High King of the West, Elaldar, first of his name, son of the late High King Eldarion I, scion of the House of Telcontar, Heir of Númenor, has fallen gravely ill. Until such time that Ilúvatar sees fit to have him returned to health, High King Elaldar I has designated by official signed edict that his wife and Queen, Esgaler of Erech, his Regent, of whom all powers of the High King of the West is passed unto until such time as the High King returneth to health sufficient to bear his Royal Duty for his subjects.

(signed)

High Queen Esgaler

(witnessed)

Prince Mithrim

Lord Túrin XXXIV of Dol Amroth"

---

---

At the Poros Ford where only a small garrison town had long stood, now a large metropolitan city stands in its place; grown in these years of peace under the King. Prince Tinsereg wondered if it stood still, or whether it had succumbed to the wrath of his eldest brother.

He stood ten leagues south from the Crossing. Here a small tributary stream poured its water into a lake from the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow. He felt each pebble through his boots as he watched the stream wash into the lake. Facing west, he stared across the water; the high full moon illuminating the quiet plains between him and the mouth of the Anduin.

Edict mandated a minimum of ten Citadel Guards remain at all times with each family member of the Blood Royal, but Tinsereg would have preferred to be alone. However, his personal Guards resided themselves to give the Prince his space.

Whenever Tinsereg needed to seriously think, this was the place he would always come to. It was his favorite spot. The fair moonlight glowed milky silver off the grasses all the way to the Sea, and when a wind was whipped up in the air the lanky stalks swayed like waves in a saturnine harmony. Sometimes... _just sometimes_, he thought he could discern the Straight Way to Valinor, the Elf-paradise of old.

The lands were now empty, however. Disturbingly empty.

The sound of hooves rumbled from behind, shaking him from his searching. His Guards readied themselves, but then allowed his wife and her bodyguards past. Arientari unhorsed and came to Tinsereg's side.

"I thought you were abed," he said.

"You always come here at night when we're nearby, my lord," she said. "What do you see out here that you cannot during the daytime?"

It never ceased to amuse the Prince how his wife always plunged straight into the practical matters. "I wonder if the moonlight off the landscape is as it was during the Elder Days," Tinsereg answered. "I cannot see how it could have been more beautiful. But... perhaps the moonlight was somehow purer, a more luminescent glow off the greens. I don't know."

"What brings your thoughts to these things?" There was concern in her voice.

"Everyone says that the world has faded since those times. I wonder if the hearts of Men have faded with them." That was an awful line and Tinsereg felt embarrassed for saying it, but he could think of no other way to say what he felt. His thoughts spurred to the war out East and then the brewing civil conflict here at home. He tried to push these clamorous images of violence away, to concentrate on his quest for Valinor, but in vain. The war had penetrated into his mind, even on this ground.

Arientari put her arm under his before he continued. "I come here to wonder. I've never heard of Bëor of old being at odds with his sons."

"You concern yourself overmuch with this, my lord," she consoled. "You will make your mark upon this world."

That caused Tinsereg to pause. He looked down at his wife. Her dark skin and black hair that seemed to glow like soft _mithril_ at its folds in the moonlight. _What motives has she_, he wondered. What was Arientari trying to tell him? Was she trying to get him to gamble; to move out and affect events? To what end?

"But how," he asked.

Messengers had relayed that all of Gondor-proper and Ithilien were levied into an army near a million strong. They were split in two; one rallying around Minas Anor, behind the Rammas Echor, and the other was massed around Poros in South Ithilien.

Meanwhile, Elagor's Arnorian army numbered near three quarters of that. Pelatur, the middle brother, riding under Elagor's banner, had around 200,000 men to his name. Tinsereg himself stood at the head of just over a hundred thousand. If he crossed the Poros, that would give them 50,000 more men than their opponents.

_But wars aren't won by numbers alone..._

It hurt dearly to see his beloved nation tearing itself apart and he hated the mere statistical methodology in which he thought of it. Battle strategies and counter-strategies rolled through his mind, one after the other, and over and over again. War scenarios played themselves out while he simultaneously revolted against them. He couldn't think of any way out that didn't involve untold death and destruction.

Tinsereg tried as hard as he could to connect these impersonal opposing forces of loyalists versus rebels with names and faces on both sides. These were Gondorian legions versus Gondorian legions! He knew at least of a few commanders and centurions of each army. Yet all he could see were symbols, wood blocks on a map, and felt sickened.

Yet what could he do about it? He wished that all of it, the war, the armies, and the map, would just disappear. But they wouldn't. He forced his tears away.

"Don't be afraid to seize the moment," Arientari said, stroking the side of face. "You have the potential to do great things, my lord. To save this land. Don't balk. Not now."

Something deep down in him rang in resonance with what Arientari said.

However, he remembered what Pelatur had told him at the New Year's party: _You don't have the backing of the nobility of Gondor. That limits you_. Tinsereg held both Arientari's and his brother's statements in tension, and found them both true. Yet he couldn't coalesce them into one coherent meaning.

"I'm lost," he finally said.

Arientari looked onto her husband with eyes filled with pity. Never had she seen him this indecisive. Always had he known what to do. Now he seemed stuck in some gray and murky middle-ground between his conscience and history. Here stood a man who could be the greatest King Gondor ever knew. Yet he consistently checked himself, held his ambitions back, and took the humbler road for what reason she could not fathom.

She'd seen him rule Harondor with a fair and even hand. She'd seen him mercilessly destroy his enemies and sack border towns with unrivaled fury to consolidate his seat. _What was it all for, if not to advance his position?_ She let her gaze follow Tinsereg's out towards the West. "Do you hope to find yourself out there?"

"Perhaps," he answered. "Everything my father said and everything my father did was in contradiction. I know he loved his new wife with all his heart. Yet I also know that he loved us just as well. Was everything that he'd said to Elagor a lie? Everything he gifted to Pelatur a trick? Everything he promised me hollow?" Tinsereg had to pause to gather himself back up. "I cannot imagine him signing over all powers to Queen Esgaler fully aware that he'd be abandoning his three first-born sons."

His anger was palpable, but he didn't give it reign. "These things are not in your control," she consoled. "Gondor is a land of many contradictions."

_True_.

His father, High King Elaldar I, had always praised Tinsereg. Nothing but the kindest words and finest things were there for his third son. He bestowed upon his son the privilege of being his Shield of the South: the supreme commander of all southern armies. His seat was Bar-en-Umbar from where he ruled all of South Gondor for his father. Every morning he could look out his bed chamber's window and see the rebuilt Pillar and the most powerful naval fleet in Middle-Earth.

Then Tinsereg married Arientari and everything changed. His father stripped Umbar from his fief and Shield from his title, handing both over to his incompetent younger half-brother, Mithrim. All that was left to him was Harondor, and Tinsereg always viewed it as a bitter exile to punish him.

Yet Tinsereg refused to bear his father any ill will for his demotion. Seeing the new Queen's machinations and the will of the Gondor-proper dominated Court behind it instead.

_Did she say that specifically so I would think that_, he suddenly asked himself.

Tinsereg smiled, but Arientari saw more sadness than joy in it. "I always hoped that if I could discern the Straight Way then, maybe... I would know... this whole world would open its secrets to me. But every time I look, Valinor escapes my eye and I receive no answers."

Still, Tinsereg kept looking. Every now and then there was a chance change in the clouds off the horizon, a glimmer that might show the Way. But then it would always vanish, leaving him wondering if he'd even saw it at all.

They were coy, tantalizing visions that Tinsereg never knew were real or illusion, but always they kept him looking. Never had he seen anything that he could take away, and he desperately needed something now.

A local castellan had informed him that Elagor and his army had passed three days ago. Before that, all peasants who owed castle-guard were called up to service at Poros. Tinsereg wondered how that army had reacted to his brother. Looking north, either the flames had already gone out or the city somehow wasn't sacked. Tinsereg hoped that it was the latter which was true.

Now was decision time. As soon as he crossed the Poros, he would be just as committed as his brothers. _There _has_ to be another way!_ His brothers will tear Gondor apart. No matter who won, Gondor would never survive as whole. Something would be lost from here on and never found again. How could he contribute to that? How could he not, and attempt to use what power he had to affect events for the better?

He looked down at Arientari. She was gazing up at him with those ever searching eyes. They hid as much as they revealed, yet Tinsereg could discern real concern in them. She knew what he was thinking, of the sad choices which lay ahead. She saw how much they weighed down upon him, and felt that weight as if it were also her own. He felt united with her in a way more deeply than he had felt with anyone else.

He loved this woman, unconditionally.

"No more of this for tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, under the bright light of the sun, will be the proper time for these dark thoughts. Only then can we save ourselves from the trap of believing that the sun will never truly rise again."

---


	3. Chapter 2: New Years

"I must confess that I find the latest announcement from Minas Anor most distressing. My father is very much dear to my heart and I want nothing more than to follow his wishes. However, I cannot in good conscience ignore the disturbing and highly irregular nature of the Queen's announcement.

"A regent is not a king and therefore, by definition, cannot have all the powers of a king. Queen Esgaler must accept the limits of her station and behave accordingly. If it is true that the High King of the West, Elaldar I Telcontar, has signed over all powers of his throne, then I, and all the true nobility of Gondor with me, must question the soundness of the King's mind when that document was signed. If the King wasn't, then all decrees and actions undertaken during his illness must be declared as null and void, and received as such by all those of noble disposition.

"As far as I am aware, King Elaldar still lives and therefore is still the supreme authority over the West. This can only be made untrue by the King's death. It is therefore highly inappropriate for Queen Esgaler, as Regent, to lay claim to all Royal Authority, no matter what document the High King may, or may not, have signed. Minas Anor must respond succinctly and without delay to clear my confusion.

(signed)

Elagor, Crown Prince of the Reunited Kingdom and Lord of Arnor"

---

---

'Twas the eve of the new year, new century, in the realm of Gondor and the High King called forth his three eldest sons, long sundered from the White Tower, to join him for a feast of celebration. Thus to the King came first his eldest son, Crown Prince Elagor, the Lord of Arnor, who for long had sat in the marble hall of Annúminas far to the north for his father.

Tall he was and broad, much like his Númenorean forebears; strong and quick witted, he delighted in the work of the sword and in the building of great monuments. The Palace in Annúminas had been extensively remodeled over his tenure to better reflect the grandeur and universal nature of the Reunited Kingdom. There were huge statues of Gondor's greatest decorating courtyards and manor houses all over Arnor.

He talked mainly of war, and everyone could see the excited glint in his eyes when he spoke of combat. All of his life he'd been restless. Always the first to laugh, sing, and throw a punch. "So here we were in Angmar," he began, wine glass in his hand and a crowd growing around him. "And it's snowing and snowing, been snowing for three full days. All the orc tracks were gone and the dogs wouldn't take the scent.

"They like to come down from Gundabad and Carn Dûm whenever they figure we're not looking. So immediately you know that these aren't the brightest creatures in Middle-earth. They like to think they're clever, but they're completely predictable. Anyway, I'm at the head of a column of twenty knights and—out of nowhere—I hear this wild yell. And it's this whole company of orcs—must've been two hundred of them."

"One hundred!" an Arnorian knight shouted out.

"Two Hundred!" Elagor returned, and then back to his audience: "What is he talking about? I don't know. Anyway where was I? Oh, yes. So there's this whole company of orcs charging from both our flanks. But there was so much snow on the ground that they couldn't run all that fast. So they're just going and going, but they're not really moving anywhere.

"And some of them were more hale than others and they reach us first. Well we just dismount and cut them down as they come to us. And it doesn't enter into their tiny little minds to stop charging and run away. They just kept coming, like a pack of lemmings, I swear."

Everyone laughed.

He came on third day to the New Year with his wife, Celebras of Fornost, and his two sons Turgor and Barahir, who were like in body and temperament to their father. Turgor, exhibiting a new scar just above his eye from an orc blade, received while sweeping the Misty Mountains near Rivendell was especially popular.

Next, on the second day came Prince Pelatur, Lord Governor of Rómenondor in the east, a man strong of mind and strategy. Yet unlike his elder brother, Pelatur rarely stirred from his seat in Rómendacilbar along the coast of the southwest tip of the Sea of Rhûn; preferring his captains relay his orders in the field.

He was a slender man of wiry strength whose gaze seemed always thoughtful, yet somehow devious. As a young child he was a lover of tricks and tomfoolery, oftentimes at the expense of the Guards and Citadel servants. Many times had Guardsmen stood sentry at his door protecting a sleeping thrush bundle while the wily Prince was out wandered the hidden and secret places of the Citadel playing with the numerous cats.

His father, the High King Elaldar I, had business to discuss with his second son before the dinner began. "So how fares the East of my realm?"

"Rómendacilbar still stands," Pelatur said, masking his defensiveness with humor. "So things mustn't be that terrible."

The High King grinned. "I hear you nearly emptied your treasury revamping the Rómenram."

"The defense of Gondor's interests in Rhûn was my primary concern."

The Rómenram was the great fortress wall that stretched from the south eastern tip of the Sea of Rhûn all the way to the Ash Mountains. High King Eldarion believed the Reunited Kingdom's holdings in the East had stretched to the limits of Minas Anor's ability to effectively govern. He therefore began the Rómenram as a means to defend his subjects from Easterling and Wainrider incursions. His son, Elaldar, had overseen the project till it's completion during the early years of his own reign.

"I know son. No need to defend yourself to me," the King said with a calm voice. "Have you considered following Tinsereg's footsteps in increasing the trade in the East? That should relieve much of the burden the Rómenram has on your treasury."

Pelatur smiled his coy smile. "My younger brother is misguided in his attempts. He puts too much faith in the indiginies of his charge."

"Still the Men of Rhovanion are our most direct cousins. You shouldn't fear them."

Pelatur smiled again, but his disposition soured. "They are fickle, father King," Pelatur insisted. "They take sides with whomever has the most power at the moment. When the Easterlings decided to avoid the Rómenram and cross into Gondor from the north, several of the smaller Rhovanion tribes there sided with them. Only the King of Dale remained true."

"Is that why you allowed him to extend his kingdom so far south and east?" the King asked. "Gobbling up the smaller tribes and principalities that were protectorates of Gondor."

"Why should we protect those who sided with our enemies?"

"Perhaps the Easterlings didn't give them a choice," King Elaldar suggested.

"Then they should be grateful they have a powerful occupying army defending them. The Dorwinion tribes no longer deserve the sovereignty they squandered under our protection."

"That's neither here nor there," the King said with finality. "They were legal protectorates of Gondor. That puts responsibilities unto you, not them. If we are to expect loyalty from our lessers then we must be loyal to them... _first_. Forgiveness is vital if we are to hold onto that sprawled out grassland." That was his father, Eldarion's, select phrase for Rómenondor. "It is foolish to rely solely on just a strong army and tribute payments. I granted you the East so as you would learn what rulership truly means. Not so you can play games with the fate of Rhovanion princes."

With that the High King walked away, his point made. Prince Pelatur grimaced, _I know what I'm doing_, he thought before moving off in another direction.

Along with Prince Pelatur from the East came his wife, Arfëa of Dol Amroth, touted as one of the most fair among the Dúnedain race (second only the King's eldest child, Princess Aldanna, of course), yet her manners were most passive and she refused to look anyone in eye. Nobody paid her much mind.

With Pelatur also was his son, Artur, newly come to manhood and standard bearer for his father. The young princeling stood as tall as he could, his eyes near bursting with pride and wonder, this being his first trip to the marble City of Gondor. Many complimented on how in command the young boy was of himself. Pelatur received much of the credit for his son's maturity.

People crowded in every courtyard and square delighting in the night's revelry; drink and food provided by the Crown. Preparations in the city of Minas Anor had been carefully laid out since the turn of the last year. All the City was decorated with lights and red flowers. The glow off the white marble turned night into day inside the City and made it a radiant beacon at the foot of Mount Mindolluin throughout all the surrounding night-shrouded lands. Never before had Minas Anor shown thus in all its strength and glory.

As the empire of Gondor grew, so too did its city in vigor and beauty. But when the fortunes of glory turned against the Heirs of Númenor and their works of stone and steel and blood were undone, the faces of its people wearied and were mournful. The city aged as the empire shriveled, and turned its heavy eye to the memory of glories gone.

Then, like a sudden flame, did the lost king come, and the sun shown again upon the grayed land. Aragorn, Elessar, the promised king from a brother land did come. The empire, the city, was then resurrected from the Dawnless Day. The Reunited Kingdom was the Reborn Gondor. And so the elder Gondorian Dúnedain stood at High King Elessar's side and road on his mantle to glory unmatched in all the thousands of years of the country's history. It was as if ancient Númenor itself had risen up from the depths of the Sea with the new crowned King.

Inside Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, long trestle tables ran the length from the King's Table atop a dais to the entrance. Center above the tables hung a massive rug depicting the epic battle of the Pelennor Fields from the Siege of the Rammas Echor, the advance of Sauron's orcs, the Breaking of Gates, to the Charge of the Rohirrim, and the return of King Elessar from the river, ending with his coronation. The tables themselves were covered with eating rugs with the feast laid out upon them.

The High King of the West, Elaldar, the first of his name, third King of the Reunited Kingdom, scion of the ruling House of Telcontar, Heir of Númenor, came into the Hall through the King's Door in the rear. All stood as he came to his place at the center of the high table raised on the dais set perpendicular to the trestles. Above the High King there hung the Royal Standard sewn by the Queen Grandmother Arwen Undómiel herself.

The King garbed himself with a toga (his with a purple sash) over ceremonial armor, as did Pelatur and several others of the Gondor-proper nobility over their intricate doublets and coronets. The High King couldn't help but chuckle at the idle pretense of the nobility surrounding him. Elagor, meanwhile, dressed himself in a simple but fine clothed soldier's formal tunic and black dyed breeches.

Queen Esgaler, in her flowing and regal silver dress and corset, sat to the King's left, followed by Princess Aldanna and the Royal Grandchildren. To the King's right sat his heir, Crown Prince Elagor and his wife, then Prince Pelatur and his wife. Two seats then on the right of the King and one to his far left were left open for the third son and his family, delayed by the fortunes of war to the South. Then sat Prince Mithrim, the King's fourth son, the only one yet born by his second wife, beyond the two empty seats.

The King of Rohan in the land of Calenardhon would have been present, but he was ill with the Saddle Sickness. So his heir, Prince Éohelm son of Éodred, had come representing Gondor's most hallowed ally, sitting just to the right of Mithrim. He adorned himself in the finest cloth of the whole of his kingdom (albeit Rohirrim in design and nature), but still worthy of such a feast of high Gondorian honor.

At the head of the right-hand trestle table sat the King's brother, Prince Ciryaher, and his two sisters with their families. At the head of the left-hand trestle sat the Steward of Gondor, Heremir, who was also the Prince of Ithilien, an elderly but doughty man of direct descent from Faramir and Eówyn.

Down the tables there the other royal cousins and Lords and Ladies from Gondor-proper, Ithilien, and Arnor stood. Rulers of several Rhovanion principalities were also present, chief among them the King of Dale. As well as Rohirrim chieftains, notables from the Shire, and several of Gondor's most renowned generals and other high officers.

Looking down the rows of impatiently waiting aristocracy and legionaries the High King knew that money had changed hands in the seating arrangements. Who sat by who was a good indicator of the maneuverings and conflicts behind the peaceful facade of the Reunited Kingdom. Those of high prestige and their political allies and patrons sat nearer the Royal Dais while those newly made into lordship and lower Court functionaries sat near the back.

Elaldar took special note that the Lords of Dol Amroth and Langstrand, both of prominent Court standing, were seated as far away from each other as politely permissible; the marriage of their cousins Elaldar had helped arrange had obviously failed to ease _that_ dispute.

King Elaldar raised his glass in toast and all the guests rose with him. "On this day, the twenty-fourth of March, we are gathered here to honor and celebrate Elendil and his sons, who first came across the Sundering Sea from the Downfall of Númenor to found these Realms in Exile," he began the toast. "And to Elessar who returned the House of Elendil to power!"

_"Hail!_"

"To all those who have fought and died in the defense of the West, and to all those who continue that duty to this day!"

_"Hail!_"

"To land and to King! To three hundred years of the Rule of the King! To Gondor!"

_"HaiL!_"

All drank the sweet wines of the famed Lebennin vineyards.

"Now let us be seated, and enjoy the company of family and friends."

King Elaldar took his seat followed by all others in the proper order. The King took the first helping, then the rest of the Royal Family. Finally, the signal was given for all to join.

At first the feasting and conversation were modest, the dignity of the evening still fresh in their minds; but as the night deepened and the wine flowed the guests cares faded out of memory and the party blossomed into a merry festival. As the mirth of the guests grew, so did the King's generosity until the splendor of the evening seemed likely as to never dissipate.

Jesters, musicians, and dancers from all subjugate territories filled the guests with laughter and joy as one after the other were heralded and brought forth. Representatives from the Shire, Dunland, Rohan, and several minor Rhovanion principalities showcased each of their people's culture and heritage. The noble guests from those regions busied themselves with the fine tradition in the Reunited Kingdom of bragging and arguing over the significance and quality of each performance, and whose culture is the most "cultured", compared to the high tradition of Númenor at the Court of course.

The main singer opened with a carol in a resonating baritone.

_Good King Elessar went out_

_On the Feast of Pippin,_

_When the leaves grew on the trees_

_Thick and green and even._

_Brightly shown the sun that day_

_Though the breeze was cool,_

_When a poor man came in sight_

_Begin' alms and gruel._

Was a part of it.

As well, several of the performances were from some of the more exotic Easterling and Southron territories, plus a special exhibition from the Peoples of the Núrnen. Dancers and various other performers dazzled the guests with feats never before witnessed in the City.

They were acrobats, animal charmers, singers, dancers, defective people on parade, and others displaying seemingly magical skills no Gondorian ever dreamed possible. All the while the guests ate and drank and cheered. Some of the more rowdy Gondorian Lords tossed their spent chicken and boar bones at these performers, most notably by the King's youngest nephew who sat near the head of the right-hand table.

At one point three Shirelings jumped on the table to proclaim how closely related to Frodo Baggins and/or Samwise Gamgee and/or Peregrin Took and/or Meriadoc Brandybuck they were. Two of the _Periannath_ got the discussion so heated as to who was closest in relation to Peregrin that several nearby guests thought that it would come to blows (and a few hoped it would).

"What the great High King Elessar was thinking when he had the beds of two of _those_ beside him at his funeral, I'll never know," Queen Esgaler commented, shaking her head in disgust.

"They were his friends and companions, brave and true," High King Elaldar answered. "Heroes of Gondor."

"Still, those... provincials don't belong in the hallows of Rath Dínen with the Kings of Gondor," the Queen insisted. "They belong with their own kind. Look at them. And now they are counselors of the North Kingdom."

"True," Prince Elagor put in. "But we don't pay much attention to them."

"Here in the south, in True Gondor, peoples like them would be held to their place," the Queen prodded.

"They don't pay taxes, either," Elagor lamented.

"It isn't right for any of them to have any say in the affairs of the Kingdom," the Queen continued. "High King Elessar was a great man, but he had some strange eccentricities."

High King Elaldar swallowed the rest of his wine. He had long ago learned it was best not to argue with his new wife. Instead, he watched the Hobbits who, at the most contentious moment, burst out laughing, clanked their tankards together, and then bottomed them out. _Why can't Men end more of their disagreements like that_, he wondered.

The _Periannath_ were then helped back into their seats as the next show was heralded: a flame juggler out of Khand.

---


	4. Chapter 3: Harondor

"The High King Elaldar I Telcontar is bedridden and delirious, and therefore is unable to make clear and competent decisions. This comes at a most distressing time seeing as such as the High King has not officially designated an heir.

"In order to avoid a crisis in the succession after our current High King it is necessary for a Regent to have the, admittedly unusual, power to name an heir. Circumstances require this amendment to the Gondorian concept of Regency, handed down from Númenor of old, to keep the integrity and dignity of Royal authority intact.

"No outside body or authority is higher than that of the High King of the West, and thus the power to name the heir to the White Throne of the Reunited Kingdom must fall onto those who are closest to the High King.

(signed)

Queen Esgaler I, Regent of the West"

---

---

Tinsereg mounted his horse and strode through the streets of his provincial capital.

"MAKE WAY!" shouted the Captain of the Guard, Herumor, through the streets, "MAKE WAY FOR THE LORD GOVERNOR!"

_Lord Governor_, Tinsereg thought sardonically. It was his ruling title, but it carried more irony than authority for him. He was no longer a Lord in truth. He had no vassals holding castles to call upon in times of war. He was no Lord, only a mere Governor of a backwater and forgotten province.

The day was sweltering hot, adding to his already sour mood. Maeglad practically baked under the might of the sun, and so too its people. Many hid in their homes awaiting the cooler times when the heat could be tolerated. The city's covered walkways shielded those who were out as they went to and fro with their business, buying fruits and meat, jewelry, furniture, and all sorts of odds and ends, as well as visiting family and friends. They all wore loose fitting layered robes that trapped the cool air near their bodies which kept them from overheating.

Maeglad was a city of imported mud bricks, white-washed plaster, and golden onion-shaped domes that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. For leagues and leagues in any direction there was nothing but arid savanna and shrub-land, crisscrossed by seasonal streams and patched with desert sands. It was a land that supported only scattered nomadic tribes and tiny diseased settlements built into the leeward sides of rock faces.

Date palms lined the main thoroughfares of Maeglad and aqueducts ran the length and breadth of the city delivering water to all its four quarters. The city itself was built as a garrison town during the days of Elessar at a rich oasis that was a resting stop along the ancient Harad Road.

When Eldarion increased the trading rights and contracts with Khand and Harad, it was a boon for Maeglad. The oasis plants became private gardens, and the underground water supported rich palaces and ornamental baths. However, the Lord Governors of Harondor, usually whoever happened to be the general of the provincial legions, never saw beyond their responsibility to protect the trade caravans that passed up and down the Road. They used the profits from the trade mainly to enrich themselves and their own Houses.

When Tinsereg came, despite over two hundred and fifty years of Gondorian rule, Harondor was still an ignored backwater province. Its fields were desolate and the dry lands devoid of any permanence. All the people traveled as vast caravans between old and crumbling cities and fortifications. They'd graze and plant subsistence crops in one area, then the next year move on. The soil was too poor for anything more.

Unfortunately, Gondor had done little to remedy this. Many of the high lords looked upon the Haradrim as a quaint people, indecipherable and brutish, and definitely not worthy of trust. They did, after all, fight against Minas Anor for many thousands of years.

Though King Elessar may have treated the Haradrim with kindness, his generals did not. The Fall of Sauron, then, did not change the fortunes of Harondor. Its people were still oppressed into a down trodden rabble; the nomadic tribes of the hinter lands still waging a constant guerrilla war against the Kingdom.

Tinsereg had set out to change that.

Since his "exile" Tinsereg had allowed his subjects to enrich themselves on the trade wealth. He shared knowledge, long known in Gondor, on how to prevent plague in the scattered small villages, enacted several land use reforms that revitalized many old fields, and created bank and trade organizations to insure the goods carried in caravans. Soon, more and more of his subjects were settling down in permanent homes.

Trading posts were set up, and soon small towns started to grow around them. As these towns grew wealthy they started to draw in goods from Gondor and the other territories. The assimilation of Harondor had begun, and it was ascending back up to its former glory. This process was helped—in no small part—by the mere presence of his Southron wife, Arientari.

Tinsereg garrisoned the towns with legionaries, but made it a point to train local levies so the Haradrim could defend their own new homes and fields. He set up a system where half of his professional military held permanent garrisons while the other half wandered the countryside, visiting each town and village at a seemingly random schedule known only to Tinsereg and his generals.

Mounted lancer brigades led by Gondorian chivalry constantly roamed the countryside, looking for bandits and guerrillas. A complex system of message riders and carrier pigeons kept the whole operation together. Over the years he'd developed a strong and able force that could react quickly to trouble anywhere in his provincial fief.

He thought of his success as a happy spite against the vain and ungracious Dúnedain Lords of Gondor who'd sent him there to squalor.

---

The portcullis winched upwards and the huge oaken outer doors rolled outwards from the high arched forecastle. Tinsereg on his hyarmen garron strode out of Maeglad to visit one of the outlying villages. It was important for him to personally visit his subjects. Several of the more superstitious Harad tribesmen refused to enter the "Gondorian City", contenting themselves to do their business in the nearby villages.

He needed his subjects to relax their unease and grow beyond their Sauron-inspired superstitions. He needed them to see themselves as _Gondorian_ Haradrim if there was ever to be true peace in his fiefdom. The safer path towards this goal was the slow one. He adapted his governorship to them instead of forcing his own order upon them, hoping the two would meet in some equitable middle ground. The more Gondorian his subjects willingly became, the better off both ruled and ruler would be.

The ride would only take a few minutes, the empty scenery broken only by the pistachio groves that lined both sides of the road. Sand and silt particles lilted through the air on the morning's breeze. The burnt dust scent sent Tinsereg's mind wandering. _The sand had been blowing harder three weeks ago_...

---

Bits of quarts in the sand glittered in the midday sun as they passed, blown north by the trade winds of the dune sea to the south. Tinsereg couldn't see the enemy at first. Then, shadows appeared through the blustery sand cloud.

They were Mûmakil, huge oliphaunts, ten meters at the shoulders, girt for war. On their backs rested blood-red painted war towers carrying archers and spearmen. Their plan was as simple as it was direct. The oliphaunts were meant to crash into Gondor's lines with the archers and spearmen harassing Gondorian legionaries, keeping them from reorganizing. Khand had brought three hundred for their front line, which stretched just shy of two miles.

Behind them, thousands of foot and hundreds of horse warriors marched out of the east to take care of the survivors. It was the largest army fielded by Khand since the War of the Ring three hundred years ago. Their goal: annihilate Gondor's power over Harondor and liberate Umbar to free the Haradrim (for their own devices).

But first, they'd have to get past Prince Tinsereg, Lord Governor of Harondor and a former Shield of Gondor. Him, and his own regiment of Mûmakil.

The army marching behind Tinsereg numbered one hundred and fifty thousand. It was an eclectic mix of professional legionaries, mounted lancers, mercenaries, outlaw bands (disguised as mercenaries, here for plunder), tribal bands, levies of peasants fulfilling their feudal obligation, and a few knights. All were organized and trained to fight as one. Tinsereg felt most proud that many of the men behind him were Haradrim, the best testament to the success of his overlordship.

True to form, Khand's general had them plunging straight towards Tinsereg's line. The enemy oliphaunts trumpeted, a huge and guttural sound; their masters screaming wild war yells as the Mûmakil charged forward with all speed. Horns blasted furiously, the ground shook under the feet of the enemy, but the heart of Tinsereg did not tremble.

He stood at the front and center of his own Mûmakil line, garbed in the armor of a prince of Gondor: a black sircoat emblazoned with the White Tree over plate and mail. His high crested helm pressed against his cheeks as he scowled at the enemy. As many as they were, their numbers suggested that Khand was hoping for a general revolt of the Harad tribes to bolster their ranks. Tinsereg smiled to himself at denying them that.

Several of the tribes who were never going to accept Gondorian overlordship did side with Khand's army, but their numbers were far from giving Khand the advantage. This allowed Tinsereg the perfect opportunity to destroy several of the more militant tribes; and he wasn't about to waste it.

Tinsereg ordered his lines to advance. The oliphaunts started slowly, but gradually their tremendous weight propelled them forward with ever increasing speed. The two lines of charging Mûmakil thundered towards each other. At two hundred meters, Tinsereg made his move.

One long blast of the horns followed by two short ones sounded. The drivers steered the oliphaunts to the right, exposing their vulnerable flanks... and the hidden scorpions mounted on the war towers.

"FIRE!"

A wave of two meter steel arrows flew into the heads of Khand's oliphaunts as the order was relayed down the line. They toppled over in resounding thuds. The screams of falling men and the death cries of beasts filled the air. The few oliphaunts who did survive Tinsereg's surprise attack were allowed to charge through his thin line. There, more scorpions and ballistas were waiting for them. In the first few minutes of the battle Khand's Mûmakil forces were completely destroyed.

Tinsereg's cavalry flanked the corpses and descended upon Khand's shocked warriors as his infantry advanced to the front. Several of the fiercest commanders, mostly Haradrim volunteers, were able to marshal their men to charge Tinsereg's lines, but they were no match for Tinsereg's professional horsemen and quickly slaughtered. Then, suddenly, as if some magic lever slammed an invisible wall in front of Gondor's troops, they all halted.

Khand's once proud and feared Variags now stood witless in shocked stillness. Their greatest weapon, the Mûmakil, of whom their General had sworn would assure them of victory, had fallen dead all at once. Then, all those who charged Gondor's lines were swept beneath a wave of hooves and spears, shields and swords.

Tinsereg swung down from the oliphaunt to Alquacam, his steward and aide-de-camp, waiting with his horse. Khand's General would be given a chance to keep his life. It was the honorable thing to do.

His intelligence reports on this general said that the man was a minor chieftain who had united the vast majority of Khand's tribes using diplomacy sometimes, oftentimes the sword, and then the tribes just coalesced behind his banner like it was the natural thing to do. The most important thing to Tinsereg, though, was that between the lines he seemed to see a man who could be negotiated with.

Guarded by a strong praetorian of one hundred Citadel Guards, with two hundred more held just behind, Tinsereg rode out to where his cavalry were waiting with his closest staff. As he passed by the fallen, Tinsereg looked out at the frightened and confused faces of the enemy. He knew that from their perspective, Gondor's cavalry must seem an ominous force which had halted for reasons they did not understand.

He rode out, just shy of bowshot, and awaited his opposite. It took only a minute for Khand's General to ride out to meet him. He was a tall man, armored all in black, who rode a blood red stallion.

Strange though... he appeared to have with him two standard bearers. On the General's left was born the expected snake of Khand, black on a red field, but on his right was born a strange standard Tinsereg had never seen before. It was black on red, just like Khand's, but instead of a snake it was a black tree; a mockery of the White Tree of Gondor.

The General reared up just in front of Tinsereg.

"You're shorter than I thought you'd be," Khand's General began, his voice deep and a-rhythmic, like sandpaper.

"Does that disappoint you," Tinsereg asked.

"To hear tales of you and the Dúnedain, one'd think you stood thrice the size of a man," the General said. "But all I see before me is a petty shape, no greater than the vilest wretch in my host."

"I am but this humble frame."

"I figured that you'd still be attending the festivities at Minas Anor," he said. His stallion restlessly pawed at the ground and wouldn't hold still. It was eager and excited about something.

"I left early," Tinsereg responded, leading his garron calmly out to the General.

"So I see," the angry General said as he raised his visor to reveal a hard-lined sunburnt face.

"You are no man of Khand," Tinsereg observed. _This must explain the strange standard_.

"And you are no true man of Gondor," the General said.

Tinsereg felt some resentment at that remark, but he let his horse express it with a snort. "And just how is that?" _Keep him talking_.

"Gondor is a marshal land of men who do not take pity upon kindreds they deem lesser than their own."

"Perhaps the Gondor of your assumptions is not the Gondor of reality," Tinsereg proposed. _Why do I always find myself playing the hypocrite_?

Khand's General laughed. "I know Gondor quite well."

Tinsereg just smiled. He may be a hypocrite, but this man was showing himself to be nothing more than pompous lies. _Disappointing_. "I left your men alive so as they can return to their homes, and live out the remainder of their lives in peace."

The General laughed again. "Mercy," he spat out the word. "Mercy on the battlefield! Is this the Tinsereg who destroyed Bascar, Leonith, and Realango? The slayer of Salaliathänyo and Hyrumenetig? You've grown weak. Your demise is all but certain."

"Even they had their chance to surrender. With hindsight, now you know what will happen to you and your men. There is no need for further bloodshed. You've lost. Take your men and ride back to your homes." After all, the recalcitrant Haradrim tribes had already been mostly destroyed. Khand's main threat to Gondor was its oliphaunts, and those lay dead behind Tinsereg. It was oftentimes better to leave a whipped enemy alive than a destroyed one.

"I do not bow to your wishes."

"Go home," Tinsereg ordered. "And never return. My mercy is not without limit."

The General laughed for a third time.

"Do I amuse you," Tinsereg asked, his mood souring.

"The price of half-victory is death," the General quoted as a warning.

In this he purposely betrayed his origin to Tinsereg. _It had to be purposeful!_

He was of the Black Númenorean race. Thousands of years ago these two generals would have been countrymen. But this black armored snake was descended of those long ago tricked by Sauron into turning against their homeland.

Something bigger and more sinister was going on here than just one invasion of a protectorate province. _The White Tower must be warned_.

Without warning, Khand's General drew his sword and cried out in unholy fury as he swung it down upon Tinsereg.

---

It was with grim satisfaction that Tinsereg rode back into Maeglad, the head of Khand's General on his pike. Normally it would adorn the ramparts of Maeglad, but Tinsereg had decided to package it off to Minas Anor as proof of his suspicions, written down in an accompanying letter.

Minas Anor had still not replied, or even confirmed that his warning had been received. _Very strange..._

His seat was now more secure than ever before. Harad had been recently defeated at Umbar, and now Khand on his eastern border was completely demoralized, and several of the surviving obstinate tribes had accepted exile, but Tinsereg couldn't rest and dwell on that. Security needed to be nurtured if it is to last. Despite all his efforts, his was an erratic and volatile land. One misstep could be catastrophic. Politics was now in play, and the sword was no longer enough to rule.

_At least the ride to the village wasn't eventful,_ Tinsereg mused.

They were halfway there when Tinsereg came out of his daydream. Someone must have alerted the village elder of Tinsereg's coming because he came riding out to greet them. He was a small, wire thin man but well dressed and very pleased to meet his liege lord.

For the better part of the past three years he'd styled himself a Gondorian earl, and was entitled to all rights and responsibilities thereof. There were a few ceremonial obligations that accompanied the lordly rank, but Tinsereg excused those and allowed the traditional Haradrim customs to stand. For all practical purposes his job didn't change. He only now had a place at Minas Anor if he ever ventured there. But something in Tinsereg said that that would never occur.

However, that didn't mean that his new title hadn't made him more than a few enemies.

His village had grown into much like a small town with all the superstitious traders coming to and fro. The buildings were mostly small one to two story clay brick structures. Tinsereg enjoyed the fact that, unlike the wooden villages in the north, these buildings didn't loom over the streets ominously.

There was one main thoroughfare that ran straight through the town which doubled as the bazaar. The rest of the town had grown organically around this main road. There was a caravan in-town and the central way was crowded with people buying and selling.

Tinsereg did the rounds, talking to buyers and the caravan sellers, asking about security on the trek over, what goods were to be had and not, how much they intended to sell, and the caravan's final destination.

This one was heading towards Hyarmentur, the late High King Eldarion's darling coastal city directly westward, and then onto Elagor's Arnor by sea. The city had been constructed in a cliff wall as a relief port for the Umbar navy as it patrolled the southern trade routes.

The only member of his staff to join Tinsereg on this excursion today was his steward, Alquacam. He was a man of average height, average weight, and average build. Everything about him was average except his extraordinary talents as an administrator. He was an efficient, pragmatic, and even tempered man with little imagination. He had been with Tinsereg since the better days when his seat was Bar-en-Umbar.

On the far side of the town the fields stretched out for the remaining ten furlongs of a depression that collected rainwater. Small crofts dotted the landscape, breaking up the long wheat rows. To his right a few rows of pistachio trees grew in the moister soil. From the looks of things, Tinsereg figured that this town was going to continue being very successful.

Then he saw something that diminished his hope.

Out from one of the crofts ran a little child, naked in the hot sun. His mother came running after him, trying to cover boy in a tattered cloth. Something appeared wrong with the boy, though. Then Tinsereg saw it.

As the boy turned to face his mother, the boy revealed that his right arm was missing from just above the elbow—a reminder that his Harondor was still a violent and volatile province. A dismal sense of failure washed over Tinsereg as the sight stopped him in his tracks.

Then, out from behind the boy came men on horses. Haradrim raiders, shreds of cloth waving off their armor, breaking up their silhouettes and making them seem more menacing. They had longbows in hand with plenty of arrows. The mother grabbed her child and ran back inside.

It took Tinsereg only half a second to run through the possibilities and come to a decision.

His Citadel Guards rallied into a line, Alquacam bringing up Tinsereg's horse. Tinsereg walked to it and climbed on. He had ten against the raider's eight. However, without bows his men didn't have a chance.

Tinsereg's only hope was that he, himself, would be a more enticing target than the town. The number of raiders suggested that they were only after him anyway. His Guards were fully armored, but it wouldn't do for Tinsereg to mingle with his subjects as such. Instead, he had on only a chain mail shirt cleverly hidden beneath his long tunic. _Little help against arrows_.

Tinsereg took his line around the town.

"To Maeglad! To Maeglad!" he shouted when the white plaster walls his capital came into view. His men broke out into a gallop, going just slow enough not to tire their horses too quickly. The Guards took up their defensive stations with Tinsereg at the center.

Tinsereg hoped that the raiders' horses were as worn out as he thought they were, but as arrows started to fall amongst them it became clear that the raiders' horses were as fresh as his own. He spurred his horse faster, his eyes hard set on the walls of Maeglad.

The two rear Guards were the first to fall. He moved two out of three Guards on each side to cover his rear. Sending them to face the raiders would be suicide.

Tinsereg heard the cries of horses and his men from behind. They were catching up.

The surviving Guards moved around close to Tinsereg in a small cluster, their shields held over their backs to protect against arrows. The upraised shields would increase the wind resistance and slow the horses, but they had to defend themselves.

At these speeds any sudden movement to either side could be disastrous. They didn't just need to win the race to the city, but somehow find a way to get beyond bowshot. Desperation filled their blood and the sweat rolled into their eyes. Spurring their horses faster _faster_, always faster, but the strain was quickly becoming too great and the horses began to slow.

Tinsereg heard the hooves tearing up the dusty clay soil, the city getting closer, _excruciatingly_ slowly. _TOO SLOW!_ His back ached from the twist needed to hold his reigns and keep the shield above his back at the same time.

The Guard on Tinsereg's left was the next to fall. An arrow struck his horse in the hindquarters and in his fall he just barely missed Tinsereg. Arrows started banging against his own shield now.

Whether by the grace of Ilúvatar or the simple chance of an arrow passing very near the horse's eye, Tinsereg's garron found its second wind. His shield was nearly torn off his arm as he flew ahead of his Guards. Wind flushed his face as Maeglad now approached at an acceptable pace.

A signal arrow whistled though the air above the city. The southern gate opened and twenty fresh mounted archers streamed out. They rushed passed Tinsereg in a whoosh of pressure. The raiders, having tired their horses out in the mad dash to the city, were doomed. Tinsereg slowed his garron to a trot and entered through the gate.

Guards from the walls looked down with half worried, half astonished faces. Commoners stopped to watch the commotion as the exhausted prince passed. Alquacam came up at his side, but both riders used the time to the palace's private stables to catch their breath.

"What was that," the steward finally asked between long breaths as stable boys took the horses.

"Desperation," Tinsereg said, still panting a little. "We couldn't be defeated on the battlefield. Assassination is the next best thing." _How did they know where I would be? Luck, or..._

"They must have snuck past our border guards at night somewhere," Alquacam thought out loud as he followed Tinsereg out.

"All the fords over the Harnen River are watched," Tinsereg said. "They must have crossed hiding in a caravan or swam across. The bows and horses they could have then bought or stolen."

"Their armor?"

"Maybe they used a small raft to ferry themselves across." _Not likely, but possible. Most like they hid in a caravan. Those people have to balance all the factions on both sides of the river to stay afloat._

"I thought we controlled both sides of the river," Cam said rhetorically.

Tinsereg answered anyway. "We do."

"I told you the increased trade would result in security problems. With all the money we're spending keeping legions roaming from town to town and the lancers out on patrol, it's those damned caravans that are the real problem. Ilúvatar knows what people come and go in those."

"I told you before Cam, the risk is acceptable," Tinsereg defended himself. "And that it will diminish over time."

"How do you know that? We're fighting a war with ourselves! We need to take some legions or lancers out of the field and put that money towards caravan inspection."

"All caravans are inspected at the border crossings and at the trading posts. The inventories are then compared to records here at the Palace to see if anything's missing or added. You know that, Cam?"

Justice didn't always follow irregularities in caravan goods, though. Tinsereg concentrated his spies in caravans with a history poor record keeping. Actually, it had been his wife's idea. Cam, however, was never comfortable with it. To him, justice was best served swiftly and without plots or extenuating circumstances.

"Perhaps they were exiles you allowed into Khand," Alquacam tried another tract. "These people have no decency! How many more of these incidents..."

Tinsereg spun around to face his steward. "Cam! I will not re-fight old battles with you! How many more incidents would there be if most of the tribes were still openly fighting us?" he shouted. "How many more?"

Alquacam buckled.

He knew the casualty rates were now three hundred percent lower than before. He knew that more money flowed amongst Harondor than ever before, and the value inherent in the Haradrim people. Yet old patterns of thinking are hard to break. Alquacam never was one to easily embrace new ideas.

Still, he didn't deserve to be yelled at. Tinsereg put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

Their responsibilities were great and hard, and in the past year that was beginning to show in both men. Today had pushed them to the edge. _'Incidents', that was the perfect word_, Tinsereg thought. The how and why weren't important, it had happened. Now, what were they going to do about it?

"My apologies," Tinsereg consoled. "We take large tribute from all of Harad and Khand; have more wards and hostages than we know what to do with. Some days it seems nothing will subdue the humors of these people. But... I have faith that all will turn out well."

Alquacam sighed deeply and relaxed, then smiled.

Bridges mended, Tinsereg turned away to head up the stairs to his palace. "I'm going to increase the watch along the Harnen and have more Rangers beyond. I want you to send a warning to Bar-en-Umbar telling them what happened today. This might only be a beginning."

In a way, Harad's attack made some kind of perverse sense to Tinsereg. Strike the leader, let the army wilt. This was Tinsereg's Harondor; there was no doubt over it. No one else in Gondor would do as he had done. Attacking him was a great idea. Tinsereg knew he should have prepared for it better. Deep down he knew that Harad would try this one day.

Someone deep down in the Haradwaith was thinking. Suddenly, the words _Black Númenorean_ came into his mind.

"Prince Tinsereg!" The shout came from Beren, the general of the legions responsible for the central Maeglad district, Tinsereg's direct military underling. "It's your father, the King."

---


	5. Chapter 4: Latecomers

"My father, High King Elaldar I of the House of Telcontar, has all but named an heir. The lordship of Arnor has become a new tradition for the future Kings of Gondor. Elessar was, himself, a Ranger in Eriador. When he became King he gave the administration over Arnor to his son, Eldarion. When Eldarion was High King he gave his eldest son, Elaldar, the Northern Scepter of Annúminas for his protection. Elaldar then became King Elaldar I after his father passed. Since I myself have been granted the privilege of the lordship over Arnor by my father it stands to reason that I, Elagor, am his intended heir.

"Not only that, but I am rightfully his heir. There is no potential crisis in royal succession. The kingship of Gondor has always been passed down unto the first sons of the King since the days of Elendil with only two notable exceptions. Even during the Rule of the Stewards in Gondor in the absence of kingly authority, the right to the kingship was passed down in the line of the Heirs of Elendil from father to surviving first-born son. Thus, did this authority pass unto Elessar when he became, unopposed, High King three hundred years ago.

(signed)

Elagor, Heir of Elaldar and Lord of Arnor"

---

---

At an appropriate pause in the feast the Queen stood, and tapping her glass brought all the Lords and Ladies, Princes, rulers, and other notables to her attention. "I would now wish to announce, in the fullest of my satisfaction—and that of the High King's—that the threat of the barbarian Haradrim raiders against Gondor's Haven of Umbar has been utterly extinguished under the stalwart leadership of my son, Prince Mithrim, not two days past!"

All hailed the victory for Gondor. "Three hails for Prince Mithrim, Lord of Umbar!" the Queen proclaimed.

_"Hail! Hail! Hail!_"

The happily embarrassed Prince politely stood and thanked the cheering crowd, and received a congratulatory cuff on the shoulder from the Heir of Rohan as he sat back down.

Suddenly a shout and a clash rang out. The guests turned their heads. At the main entrance, behind the crossed pikes of the Door Guards stood (of all things!) a Haradrim woman!

The main entrance was not where Haradrim showgirls were supposed to enter. They were smuggled in through the side doors to keep them out of the sight of decent folk. However, their offense at her presence lessened as they took a closer look at her.

She was a tall lithe beauty, her rust colored skin showing little signs of age. Her long black-black hair had a glossy shimmer as it hung straight and unbound from her narrow face.

A hand reached out behind the woman and gripped one of the pikes. Then all knew why she stood there. They knew her as Arientari, but that was only her given Gondorian name. None save her husband knew what it had been before. Prince Tinsereg, third son of the King, stepped out from behind his wife and into view.

Under his stare the Guards relaxed and let them pass.

Tinsereg had a fey hunter's eyes, so sharp and intense were they that few could withstand them for long. The young Prince was known to render even the most stouthearted of knights quaking in their boots with but a glance and a word.

The Prince took his wife's hand and entered the Feast Hall. Behind them came their son Iandil, who'd inherited his mother's lustrous hair, but his tanned face and ice blue eyes were likened to the father.

Arientari's dress was mustard yellow with flecks of cloth-of-gold glittering in the torch light at each of her strides. The Princes wore black sleeveless silk jerkins displaying the White Tree of Gondor topped by a crown and seven stars, the Royal Sigil, resting over their white tunics.

As the family passed the party guests caught the scents of jasmine from Arientari, cinnamon from Tinsereg, and licorice from Iandil.

The Black Prince of Harondor himself was counted tall amongst lesser Men, but his brothers were all at least three inches higher. Tinsereg's strides were brisk and confident, with a definite heel-toe _heel-toe_ echo ringing throughout the dead silence.

All the nobility of Gondor couldn't decide how to greet the newcomers, so they just sat and watched nervously as they passed, suddenly aware of the lines of Citadel Guards that stood along the walls. The history of the last time one of the Royal Dúnedain wed one of the lesser kindreds of Men forefront in their minds.

The sword of the third son of the King only added to their unease. It was ceremonial only, though, harmless and dull edged. It hung naked from it's holder at the prince's side; etched in the Royal Heraldry and markings of the Lord Governorship of Harondor. _Tinsereg, son of High King Elaldar I, Prince of the Imperial House Telcontar of the Reunited Kingdom. Lord Governor and Viceroy of the Royal Fief of Harondor_.

Tinsereg began to hear whispers as he walked past the trestle tables. "Castamir," he heard. "Bastard son. _Losloth's Bane_."

Even prior to his infamous marriage the third Prince was the subject of much dark hearted exchanges. Known throughout his life in whispered conversations as _Losloth's Bane_, the King's first love and wife had passed in birthing him.

The midwives had brought the story with them.

The birthing bed was already soaked in the Queen's blood when he came out. She had held him briefly, her hands and brow sweaty and cold; she whispered secret words to him before her body suddenly failed. In that moment, the midwives said, the newborn Prince's eyes gained an unearthly glimmer, as if the mother had awakened something deep within. It was said that the Queen, whom always had a radiant presence that fit comfortably within the contours of her body, had passed some of her power unto her last child as she had unto her daughter.

However, unlike the case with Aldanna, the years revealed that the Prince had inherited none of her cheerful nature. Instead he was the most solemn of the King's sons, rarely smiling. He had been the butt of many of Pelatur's jokes and pranks, but never had he raised his voice, nor reacted in anger. Many began to suspect his quite stoicism as weakness, his love for lore and dance over arms as womanly.

Yet still, none could doubt the sheer still magnetism of the quite Prince, like one of the great Elf Heroes of the Elder Days remembered only in fading song.

Some figured the prince's power a dark one, however. "Cursed are those born in death," goes the saying in Gondor, and the Queen's death breath had been passed unto him. The wise deemed it an ill omen for the House of Telcontar, especially when he proved himself equal to Elagor in swordsmanship during his adolescence.

It was enough to have a Dark Prince in the Family, but one that could match the darling Crown Prince Elagor at arms was too much to handle.

Most disturbing was that third Prince sparred at best half the hours as Elagor. How proficient would he become in the years to come? Would he soon better his eldest brother? Now that he seemed to have passed his strange power onto his mongrel son, when and how would this curse in the Imperial House come to an end?

"_Losloth's Bane_," Tinsereg heard whispered.

"Harpy." _That_ one was directed towards his wife.

He led his family to the front of the head table and kneeled in front of the King. "Your loyal Lord Governor of Harondor has returned to renew his oath of fealty, and report that all is well on his borders." His voice was deep and clear, confidently rising and ebbing on each word.

The High King rose from his seat. "You come to me as a General of Men, a Lord of the Reunited Kingdom," King Elaldar began, "yet all I see before me is my son who's been away on duty for too long."

The King walked around the table. He then bade his son rise. Smiling, the proud King embraced his third son as he had done his first two, and they were finally back together again as father and son. He then acknowledged Arientari and kissed her hand. There were shocked gasps from the crowd. To the King this was not yet another opportunity for second-guessing and unpleasant gossip. The Imperial Family was finally reunited, and it was to be a happy occasion.

The Prince then dutifully, but stiffly, bowed to Queen Esgaler who returned with an equally cold nod.

Prince Tinsereg's family rose and the King declared, "Now that the family of Telcontar is reunited at last, the new century can finally begin!" All the guests cheered, but this time, it rang hollow.

---


	6. Chapter 5: Marching South

"The High King of the West, Elaldar, first of his name, of the House Telcontar, has just passed away. We, as of all of Greater Gondor, weep for his death, and pray to merciful Ilúvatar that his soul is at peace in the glory of his forbearers. His burial service will be held at the end of this week.

"On his deathbed, High King Elaldar signed and authenticated, under witnesses of the most noble and honorable station, his heir and successor.

"Princess Aldanna will be coronated as High Queen Aldanna, first of her name, of the Reunited Kingdom two weeks from the end of the next month on the Field of Cormallen.

(signed)

Regent Esgaler

(witnessed)

Prince Mithrim

Lord Túrin XXXIV of Dol Amroth

Lord Ostoher XXVIII of Pelargir"

---

---

Crown Prince Elagor, Lord of Arnor and Guardian of the Northern Scepter of Annúminas, the Shield of the Reunited Kingdom for the North, was marching south.

Now he styled himself _King Elagor_, first of his name, High King of the West, King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, King of Ithilien, King of Rómenondor, King of Harondor and the Haven of Umbar, Captain of the Host of the West, Keeper of the Scepters of the West, North, East, and South, Guardian of the Western Scepter of Minas Anor, and Shield Against the Shadow.

Soon, he would wield Andúril, Flame of the West, as was his birthright. _Wielder of the Sword Reforged_. For now, he would have to settle for Nár, the daughter sword of Andúril gifted to him by the last Elves to leave from Harlindon, just like his two younger brothers. A fact which irked Elagor now. He should be the master of all the swords, and Nár passed down to Turgor as an heirloom of the Lords of Arnor. _As soon as Andúril is mine_, he thought.

No one would contest him then. Then, he would be invincible and irresistible, just like the Númenorean kings of old. It had taken an act of Ilúvatar Himself to throw them down. And even then, Elendil, his ancestor, had survived.

_Thankfully Mithrim hadn't been born yet to that cuckolding bitch to have received a sword of his own_.

They had just passed through the city of Tharbad down the Old South Road, crossing the Greyflood River into Dunland and the ancient domains of Gondor-proper. By decree, Dunland was now one of Arnor's provinces, however, the sensation of entering enemy territory could not be denied.

King Elagor couldn't hold his smile in. A diversionary force will be sent against the western Gondorian provinces, while the main force with the King will make across Calenardhon and assail Anórien on its way to Minas Anor and the Throne of the West in the White Tower. The Rohirrim will have to let him pass their lands. They'll have no choice.

All the chivalry of Arnor was riding behind him. Stalwart and hardy men on massive warhorses, bred over thousands of years to carry fully armored knights into battle with ease. Most soldiers were of the lesser breeds of Men, but no less valorous or proud. They were vassals to the greater Dúnedain lords, the successors of Númenor, who held vast tracks of land from which to collect customs duties and tallage.

Once, their families were nothing more than homeless Rangers wandering the wilds of their former kingdom. Now they were the new high aristocracy of Arnor after High King Elessar. It was only natural; Elessar had merely acknowledged their birth right over the empty and grief-stricken land. These were men who scoffed at the meager lives of their Ranger great-grandparents, laughing at their burdens in their cups.

They wore gilded armor made by the finest smiths. Some even commissioned from the increasingly isolated and insular dwarves. Their greathelms were fashioned into the likenesses of heraldic beasts: lions, wolves, hawks, bears, moose, aurochs, griffins, and others. Powerful and majestic animals, all.

King Elagor girt himself with his finest armor; dwarven made from those who'd settled in the mountains above Minas Anor. A heavy cuirass etched with Arnor's frontiers: sea, river, mountains, and ice; with the White Tree of Gondor finding roots in them all. Above the Tree encrusted map of Eriador hung the crown and seven stars, completing the Royal Sigil. His sable mantle attached at clasps atop his lobstered pauldrons and draped over the hindquarters of his horse.

He glanced behind. The sight of the colorful heraldic sircoats and greathelms bobbing up and down filled him with a sense of power that was almost physical.

_The Dúnedain of the North_, he thought. _Arnor is again a land equal to their southern brethren. Now, they shall prove it._

In the past, Arnor was always second to Gondor in power and prestige. It had been Arnor which waned first, splitting into three feuding sub-kingdoms which fell into darkness one by one while Gondor rose to unrivaled power and glory. It had been Arnor which had submitted to Sauron's minions, _begging_ the southern Dúnedain of Gondor for aid. Those days were past, never to be repeated. King Elagor's will was firm.

For the past three hundred years Men had grown to great numbers and filled out the land. The ascendance of the former Ranger, Aragorn who became High King Elessar, heralded a renaissance for Arnor. Hollin and Angmar were annexed and settled. Orcs and other dark creatures were driven out from their long defiled lands, opening them to Men. To heal these lands great works were required, and the men or Arnor were more than up to the challenge with the wisdom and leadership of the Dúnedain as their guide.

Arnor was forged anew, stronger and grander than ever before, and now ready (eager!) to flex its muscles. Knights of Houses great and small rallied behind their King. Mounted lancers, knights without lands or castles, filled out the ranks of the Arnorian cavalry. Every legion was mobilized and all the peasants that could be spared made up the levies which swelled their ranks to over a million and a quarter fighting men.

Mercenaries flocked to King Elagor's banner with the promise of the spoils of Gondor-proper. Everyone had the glimmer of light in their eyes of those destined to be victorious. As well, much to the King's delight, marching with him was a battalion of five hundred _Periannath_ slingers from the Shire. All Arnor had been united in his cause.

There were detractors however. Blotches on Elagor's mantle, who spoke and cautioned against the war. "It is foolhardy," they had said. "A reckless crusade, only destructive to both regions of the Reunited Kingdom."

Some of the minor lords with familial ties to Gondor-proper nobility even haughtily ignored Elagor's summons, but He was not going to be defied by any of His vassals. One of them was chosen at random and his lands scorched, peasants and cattle slaughtered, and his castle razed to the ground. Elagor himself executed the King's Justice on the traitor lord.

The other non-compliants became much more cooperative after that, but King Elagor still didn't trust them. It was another thorn in his side to be dealt with, another blotch on his mantle. When Elagor becomes High King, all will be made right, his mantle immaculate.

The Road now wound its way through a forested area, and became much more rugged. King Elagor frowned as he passed into the shadows, the leaves blocking the sun's beautiful rays from glinting off his bright armor.

He turned his mind to happier thoughts.

A monument would be erected celebrating his great victory. _Why only one?_ Monuments will spring up all over the Reunited Kingdom. The grandest one of all will adorn the Citadel at the Court of the Fountain, just to the right of the Nimloth Tree.

Standing upon a plinth twice as large as a man it would depict the High King Elagor I in glowing fashion: long hair draped over the shoulders for his vitality, a long flowing beard for his wisdom, sharp, clear eyes of a visionary not just seeing the sublime future but _touching_ truth itself, with Andúril in his right hand pointing to the sky, and an orb of power in his left. The Four Scepters of the Reunited Kingdom at his feet. The plinth will be a record of all his great victories and heroic deeds. It will be an imposing figure, enough to keep these ignoble Gondor-proper lords in line.

Elagor's mind rolled over all of the statues that will bear his image. There would be the Warrior King Elagor, the King Elagor the Avenger, King Elagor the Just, King Elagor the Bold, King Elagor the Righteous, King Elagor: Smoother of the Rough and Wild.

He would have to work on the name of that last one.

So many statues to stand in so many courts, they came to him as pictures, fully formed, to his minds eye. Like in Arnor, he would be head architect and travel the land to personally oversee all idols of his image. So fixated was he on these that he failed to notice the rustling of branches above the road.

The outriders had failed to notice the hooded men lurking in the trees as well. There was no warning. King Elagor, riding at the head of his massive column, was an easy target. A poison dart shot into his neck. King Elagor, in all his planning, had decided to forgo his gorget plate since it covered the crown of the Royal Sigil etched on his cuirass.

The would-be king fell from his high horse.

His sons, Turgor and Barahir, raced up, bows drawn, and shot down the assassins. The bodies tumbled through the branches and thudded on the beaten hard dirt of the road. Turgor and Barahir unhorsed and gathered up their fallen father. They pleaded and pleaded to him to wake up and speak to them, but King Elagor remained limp in their arms.

Dúnedain lords and knights gathered around father and sons. They stared in disbelief at what they saw. Their mighty king fallen by a lowly assassin's dart. Shock and terror overcame the ranks. Elagor's wife rode up in earnest and wailed at the sight of her husband.

She pulled the dart out of his neck and held him tight. The king's head rolled to a rest upon her shoulder. Then, she felt a slight tingling sensation on her neck which froze her sobs and cries. At that moment, her heart was uplifted and she called out to the gathered lords and knights, "Fear not, men of Arnor! Your King yet breaths!"

---


	7. Chapter 6: Dessert

"Rómenondor is invested. Easterlings and Wainriders have broken over the Rómenram in a surprise and vicious attack. They have flooded into Gondorian territory. Rómendacilbar is besieged by a vast host which numbers over three hundred thousand. Mile castles report wains of tens of thousands marching west. So far, castles and strongholds are being ignored. Peasants and everyone else caught in the open have been slaughtered and every field in their path has been put to the torch. It is my contention that they mean to starve us out of our fortifications. This suggests that they have little to no siege equipment.

"Enemy has been engaged in several skirmishes and two pitched battles. Most engagements did result in victories for Gondor however the enemy is overwhelming and our forces have suffered heavy casualties. Further successful prosecution of combat is in doubt. Reinforcements are required immediately for Gondorian victory.

(signed)

Prince Pelatur, Lord Governor of Rómenondor"

---

---

Desserts were served as the latecomers sat in their appropriate seats.

"I'm afraid it seems you've missed the dinner," began Elagor to his brother as the tardy Prince walked to his seat.

"I'm afraid it seems you've missed the war," responded Tinsereg, and Lord of Arnor gave a hearty laugh.

Princess Aldanna, light as a gazelle on her toes and as radiant as her mother, loped over to him. "Welcome back, brother," she said in her lilting voice, full of laughter, as they embraced. Tinsereg felt the warm, angelic glow from her body fill him with joy. "It's so good to finally see you again." One of Tinsereg's rare smiles spread widely across his face.

They had always been close growing up; she was his surrogate mother, his protector, and the only one who had never judged him for his marriage. The Princess then curtsied to Arientari and embraced her as a sister.

"Careful sister," Elagor playfully cautioned as he rose to great the newcomers. "I hear they bite."

"I'll keep that in mind, _younger brother_," Aldanna said, smiling.

Elagor chuckled as he stood to greet his brother properly. "Only by a year." That was his standard response. Long ago in the days of the strength of Númenor, custom decreed that the eldest child, be it man or woman, was heir to the crown. Even though the practice had not been observed in these Realms in Exile, Aldanna's perfunctory claim over him had always irked Elagor.

The two princes, Elagor and Tinsereg, greeted each other with many buffets on the back. "At least I'm still older than you, Sereg," Elagor jested. Pelatur next welcomed him, and then Tinsereg clasped hands with Mithrim whose stare was filled with envy. Prince Éohelm then bowed respectfully and Tinsereg did the same.

---

The doors to the Hall were opened for leftovers from spent plates to be dispensed to the less fortunate of Minas Anor who came for the beggings. The guests inside were now treated to desert accompanied by the best minstrels of the Reunited Kingdom. Songs and lays dramatizing the great deeds of ancient Kings and those of Elessar, Eldarion, and the current King Elaldar filled the Hall as the guests ate at lemon cakes and various other pastries.

"So... how had the Haradrim fared in battle," asked Elagor, eager for the details.

"They showed courage and dignity on the battlefield," Tinsereg responded. "They are a worthy people."

"_Worthy_," Queen Esgaler muttered between sips of wine. The rest was lost in her wine glass.

Tinsereg swallowed his resentment in his own wine, knowing his wife was included in the Queen's remark.

Elagor laughed. "So they gave you a good fight, eh? Haradrim are usually easily defeated. Are you sure you haven't been spending too much time under that dastardly hot sun?"

Seeing a chance to pounce Mithrim smugly added, "It seems you were unable to stop a Haradrim fire-ship from destroying the Arsenal at Umbar."

Tinsereg took a bite of his lemon cake and chewed slowly, letting his half-brother stew in the silence. "Well, as to that," he finally began. "The waters around the Haven of Umbar are no longer my charge." Prince Mithrim had been appointed High Captain of the Arsenal, taking the Haven away from Tinsereg after his marriage.

"Yes, Mithrim," Pelatur put in, backing up his younger brother, "it must be exceedingly difficult to carry out your duties over Umbar spending all your time here in Minas Anor."

Elagor barely contained his laughter as Mithrim sank into sullen quiet.

"Boys, that's enough," the King weighed in with his thick voice.

When Tinsereg was removed from his position of High Captain of the Arsenal, Umbar was the home to the most powerful fleet on the Great Sea. Before, he had used its power to destroy a Haradrim port down the coast to the south that had been raiding the southern mercantile routes.

The Southrons had always been irate that King Elessar had liberated the former Gondorian stronghold. Many of their people had settled there over the centuries of Haradrim rule. So cross were they that these Southrons attacked it several times over the past three hundred years.

That port to the south had been becoming a substantial and growing problem, but Tinsereg had burnt it to the ground and defeated the Haradrim sailors so soundly that few in Gondor thought that they'd have any sea power again for a number of years.

Under Mithrim's tenure the strength of the Arsenal grew dramatically. So much so that all the docks and safe anchorages were so taken up with warships that the import of foodstuffs and other important supplies became exceedingly difficult from all the clutter.

Traders had to anchor off the coast and ferry supplies in, a slow and time consuming process. The Southron Haradrim, seeing their chance, quickly besieged Umbar and sent in that fire-ship which destroyed almost the entire overburdened Arsenal.

Tinsereg's Harondor army broke the besiegers and the small fleet at Hyarmentur, still under his command, was sent down to prevent another attack from the sea. Up until Tinsereg left Umbar to attend this celebration, none had come to challenge his ships and traders once again were given access to the remaining docks.

If filled Prince Tinsereg with guilty pleasure that Mithrim either had let the Haradrim port become fully operational again, had no clue what was going on, or both.

Prince Éohelm was chuckling into his dessert, enjoying this exchange between the brothers.

Prince Pelatur turned to Tinsereg, "Come, come brother, tell us a story of the war," he urged.

"Yes, Sereg," Elagor added jovially. "Tell us how you broke the backs of those Haradrim curs!"

Tinsereg thought for a moment. "It was to be the last battle—in southern Umbar. We'd defeated the Haradrim in the previous day, but they escaped being routed—our cavalry were hung up in the hills with guerrillas." There was a pause. "When we finally caught up with the remaining host they were already in full retreat... except for some five hundred who stood guarding this narrow pass. I had no intention of shortening my lines to engage them, so I ordered the archers to the front."

"Good, good," Elagor commented.

"As we closed in to archery range... something truly extraordinary happened."

"Five hundred Haradrim suddenly shatting themselves." Elagor joked.

Prince Tinsereg waited out his brothers' laughter. "They charged."

Elagor and Pelatur suddenly went quiet. They understood that valor, in the absence of hope for victory, was a truly extraordinary thing. Tinsereg glanced at the King; he was busing himself by trying to pretend not to hear. _Years later, the story of the Five Hundred Haradrim will be a patriotic fable to young Southron warriors_, mused Tinsereg. _We'll have to do something to nullify that._

"Only fools would charge a superior force," the Queen replied. "They don't know they're already conquered." She then turned to the King. "If we weren't their masters, they'd be suffering under the worse yoke of lesser Men. They should be grateful."

"I believe that those Southrons won't be bothering Umbar for quite some time." Elagor raised his glass in toast. "Well done, Tinsereg. Well done."

"Don't send a boy to do a man's job," Pelatur added.

Mithrim and Queen Esgaler's faces both turned the same color of red. His out of embarrassment, hers out of rage.

"Children," Princess Aldanna called out from the other end of the table. "Play nice."

They obeyed.

The Queen whispered something into the High King's ear. He glanced suspiciously at Arientari, but then quickly brushed the thought aside and went back to his dessert.

---


	8. Chapter 7: Rohan

"By Official Decree of the White Throne of the Reunited Kingdom for treasonous actions against the White Throne, conspiracy to commit treason, and engaging in an aggressive war to usurp the White Throne from its rightful occupant: Prince Elagor is disinherited from the House of Telcontar and no longer has the right to receive any privileges of the Imperial House.

"As such Elagor is no longer the Lord of Arnor, that station is to be granted to Lord Degarond XXIX of Ethring, with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereof. Elagor is now a fugitive of the Reunited Kingdom, a threat to its authority, and if any subject of Gondor is to lend any aid unto him, intentional or unintentional, whether it be direct or indirect, is guilty of treason.

"However, we do recognize that many of the honorable Dúnedain and other nobles of Arnor have been coerced into siding with the Usurper. Defectors will be treated with kindness, and their rights to their complete fiefs maintained.

(signed)

High Queen Aldanna of the Reunited Kingdom"

---

---

The tall grasses of the vast plains of Rohan spread out before Tinsereg. The wind whispered through the air, carrying the scents of pollen and mountain snows with it. It had taken a full week to slip through Ithilien without anyone noticing. It was only possible because the Prince of Harondor took a minimum amount of men with him.

In his place, Tinsereg had appointed his wife Arientari to hold his seat in his absence. She was the scion of a noble Haradrim House that had ruled the lower Harnen River for thousands of years, and its upper reaches for only a short while before the rise of the Reunited Kingdom. Perhaps, there was some Númenorean blood in her veins from a bygone Imperial age. It tended to persist in the bloodlines with which it's had contact.

Beren had been furious at his Lord Governor over that choice. He insisted that Arientari was in no way qualified to lead a Gondorian province. After heated debate, in which Tinsereg never pulled rank (and therefore hoped to avoid an insurrection), Beren retreated to the position that Alquacam should be named Protector of his seat. That would mean she would share her power equally with Alquacam. To placate his General, Tinsereg relented and played it to make Beren believe he'd won a victory over his superior.

_Unfortunately, drama is an inherent part of internecine politics_, Tinsereg brooded. He later made sure Alquacam knew exactly what was expected of him as Protector of Harondor.

All things considered, Arientari was the best choice. The Haradrim respected her, so they wouldn't be making any extra trouble, plus his wife was an excellent _leader_. She knew what to do and had enough common sense and inspiration to find the best way to do it. That was the precious talent Cam lacked, inspiration, and it kept him an advisor. Tinsereg hoped that his presence would keep Beren and the other legion generals in line.

The legions followed Tinsereg because it was their duty and they had grown to respect the Prince's leadership. He'd never lost a battle which he'd personally generaled. However, they had no respect and little good will for Arientari.

_Cam will do his job and remind the others of their duty_, Tinsereg reassured himself. Alquacam had saved his Lord Governorship several times before. _He'd better do it again._

That wasn't the real problem, though.

The real problem was how the Rohirrim would now react to him. He had no illusions that he could sneak past them. There was no place to hide in the rolling countryside. What Tinsereg was worried about was some Gondorian raiding party coming up from behind, so he didn't ride openly.

They dressed themselves as ordinary hunters, or perhaps mercenaries. They wore green and brown to better hide in the forests of Ithilien. Chain mail shirts were hidden beneath their tunics and jerkins. They carried their Gondorian armor and sigils hidden on their spare horses, hoping they wouldn't be necessary.

_If they are stolen by someone though_, Tinsereg knew. _They could be used to do a whole lot of damage_.

Tinsereg's little band rode out from behind of a few low hills. The sun was shining high in the sky and made the waving grasses glow a healthy green. There were colorful flowers dotting the prairie as well, archipelagoes of brilliant yellows, reds, purples, and orange in the sea of green. It was a scene of rustic beauty that Tinsereg always admired about this primitive land.

This place was wild and untethered, like the horses it was famous for. There were no fences and enclosures that penned in both Man and beast here like in Gondor and Arnor. Rohan was like the Sea: all men who could ride a horse were free and equal. All Men were kings on their own steeds. Loyalties were earned out of respect, not demanded out of pretense.

The whinny of a horse broke the afternoon silence. Suddenly, several horses sprang up from the thick tall grasses. Riders in scale mail charged the Prince's company from all directions. Their captain bore the banner of the House of Eorl: a white horse upon a green field.

Prince Tinsereg steadied his men and bade them to make no aggression. The Riders of Rohan surrounded them with spears and bows. Tinsereg ordered the Captain of his Guards, Herumor, to raise the Gondorian banner. It unfurled and was caught in the breeze.

At this the Rohirrim paused, so Tinsereg took advantage. "I am Prince Tinsereg, King Elaldarsson, of the House of Elessar Telcontar! As allies of Gondor, let myself and my Guards pass! My business is not with yourselves or your King!"

Their captain didn't appear to be impressed, and told them so. However, neither Tinsereg nor any of his Guards spoke or understood their language. The Rohirrim captain was forced to tap the pommel of his sword and gesture for them to surrender their own.

The Guards the loath to give up their swords, but Tinsereg had them dismount and hand their swords over. "You'll get them back," he reassured his men.

Rohan's captain then made it clear that he wanted Tinsereg's sword as well.

At this, Tinsereg drew his sword and thrust it high. The sun's rays caught the blade and it shown with such a brilliant white-red light that the Eorlingas backed off in shock and awe. "This is Hinruin, a Sword of the Princes of Gondor! And it is not yours to hold!" he called out to his would-be captors.

---

The ride to Edoras would take two days. The Riders who captured Tinsereg were now his guides. Their captain, Folcor, was an Undermarshal of the East Mark and did speak the Westron of the Reunited Kingdom after all. He explained that there was a diplomatic delegation from Minas Anor at Edoras, though he refused to name them, and that all unknown travelers were to be stopped and questioned.

Much news of the troubles between Gondor and Arnor was known in Rohan, and more was eagerly sought. Sadly, Tinsereg had no new news to give them. Surprisingly, the Riders were most interested in learning all they could about Tinsereg's Harondor.

It was refreshing for Tinsereg to discuss his fief to a receptive audience. The Riders seemed to hang on his every word, trying to catch every nuance of his speech. Apparently, the Dark Prince was held in higher consideration in Rohan than in his native land.

That night Prince Tinsereg and his Citadel Guards sat close around the small fire while the Riders scouted the surrounding area. They were discussing how they would conduct themselves at Edoras. Folcor would not allow them to pass through Rohan, saying that he hadn't the authority to grant them passage and that only the King could do so.

Tinsereg was frustrated with the detour, but there was no way to avoid it. Besides, it would give him a chance to decipher Esgaler's plans. His brother, Elagor, will have to wait.

Herumor was being the spokesman of his fellow Guardsmen tonight.

"You had us hand our swords over while you refused to surrender yours," he said. "Why make us seem meek, and weaken our manhood in the sight of others?"

"If you had drawn your swords with me we all would have all been cut down." Tinsereg explained. "I had you disarmed so you wouldn't follow suit with me. I know you feel yourselves wronged, and I have wronged you. For that I apologize. But for my actions I will not apologize. For I know I did the right thing."

Herumor nodded and then said, "Perhaps next time we should invest in some bows, then," referring to the race back to Maeglad from the raiders that day.

Tinsereg's smile became a chuckle which then turned into a big laugh that was shared by all his men.

---

The shine off of the Golden Hall of Meduseld came up over the horizon on a bright, sunny morning. The chill air evaporated with the morning dew as the Gondorian travelers and their escort of Riders approached the city.

The great gates of the stone wall of Edoras greeted them. Within the city Tinsereg was surprised by the predominance of Gondorian style architecture within the city. The buildings of precisely hewn granite and plaster did carry horse motifs on nearly every corner and door frame, but they were all essentially Gondorian in construction.

Edoras had grown significantly over the past three hundred years, spreading out nearly a mile wide, centered from the high hill the Golden Hall rested upon. The streets were still shaded but the lamps had been extinguished, giving the city an eerie and quiet feeling.

The Old Quarter at the center of the city was wholly different. Made from timber and daub it resembled Edoras as it had been before the advent of the Reunited Kingdom. The streets here, except the King's Central Road, were the old mud ways as they've always been, and the buildings weren't tall enough to block the sun at this hour.

On the journey to Edoras Tinsereg rode openly as a Prince of Gondor in his White Tree tunic and with the unfurled standard. He noticed though, the people of the Old Quarter seemed more hostile to him than those of the newer neighborhoods.

Their horses were granted space in the Royal Stables, and the travelers walked up the way to the Hall. Again they were asked to surrender their weapons and this time Tinsereg meant to be the first one to do so. Then he had his Guards stand by the doors, so as they wouldn't have to surrender their own a second time to a Rohirrim. "The Golden Hall of Meduseld is quite a safe place," he assured them. "As you can plainly see."

Tinsereg then unharnessed his sword, though he, like legend says Aragorn Elessar did before him, refused to hand it over to the guards. He placed the elven-made gift against the wall himself and bade that no other Man touch it.

Inside the Hall a large table had been set up before the Throne of the King of the Mark of Rohan. At its head sat King Éodred son of Elfdred with his son and heir Prince Éohelm. _No dispute here over whose Heir of the Mark_, he mused.

On the right side of the table sat Rohan's chief negotiators and diplomats, lords and courtiers all. On the left sat Gondor's delegation. The herald announced him. "Tinsereg Telcontar, son of Elaldar Telcontar, Prince of Gondor and Lord Governor of Harondor."

All in the Hall stood and greeted him.

The head of the Gondorian delegation left the table to walk over to him, and Tinsereg immediately recognized him as the Steward Heremir. The old man smiled as he greeted him, but then leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "Why have you come?"

"I meant to catch my brother, but apparently I have need to go through Edoras to do so," he whispered back.

"Oh, that's a shame," the Steward said out loud. "Then you mean to be going quickly?"

Prince Tinsereg actually found himself newly impressed with this old politician. The Steward's and his own affairs have rarely crossed paths for some reason. "I'm afraid I must."

"Good." The old Steward muttered with a smile. Then he remembered something else, something serious. "I'll want to talk to you later."

---

The King of Rohan had demanded an audience with Tinsereg after the negotiations concluded that day. He'd been offered a place at the main dinner table but had politely refused, saying he'd rather be with his men. "For their own sakes, of course."

The Hall had been cleared of the tables and Tinsereg's footfalls echoed off of the hidden walls of the dark room. The King of Rohan sat upon his throne, the only part of the Hall that was light.

Tinsereg bowed politely to the old, gaunt, desiccated-looking man whose figure barely supported his rich robes. Apparently, King Éodred was used to audience members giving deeper bows. He smiled, "You Gondorians are always polite, full of courtesies and niceties; and expect everyone else to be grateful for them."

_At least he has all his teeth still_, Tinsereg thought. _Disease had really ravaged him_. "Have I offended you, Excellency?"

"Excellency?" the King appeared to be amused. "The other delegation named me Lord of the Rohirrim."

"Which would you prefer?"

King Éodred chuckled, and then petting his thinning beard said, "I don't mind either, truthfully."

Tinsereg decided it was time to get to the point. "I have not come here to negotiate for anything or anyone, merely to ask for your permission to pass through your lands to the West."

"But if my patrols hadn't caught you, you wouldn't be here to ask, would you?"

"I was under no illusions that I could sneak past your men."

The King laughed again. "Flattery also comes easy to the lips of you people." He sat up straight in his throne. "Your request for safe passage is denied."

That hurt. "May I ask why, Excellency?"

"No, you may not." The King's voice was final and definite.

_I guess that should have been expected_. Tinsereg took a deep breath. _Time to roll the dice_. "You cannot stay neutral in this conflict for long, Excellency. Rohan will be drawn into it eventually."

"Who says I mean to stay neutral? The Steward of Gondor is here to negotiate an alliance against your belligerent brother. Men should know the limits of their station and act accordingly."

_So it's true_. "So the White Tower means to use the Rohirrim to fight its own wars."

"Only if Elagor dares to enter my land."

"And what exactly is your land," challenged Tinsereg. "King Eldarion allowed your people to settle farther down the River Isen - all the way to the Sea. The Men in the Enedwaith and Druwaith-Iaur are largely your own. Will you not defend them?"

"The Enedwaith and Druwaith-Iaur are of Gondor, not of my land," the King retorted. "Many in the Far Mark have answered your brother's call. They are not my people."

The Enedwaith was a province of Arnor after Elessar set the Northern Kingdom's southern border at the Isen for logistical reasons. However, during the reign of his son the population of Rohan had grown tremendously, pressing its small boundaries. High King Eldarion then opened those great prairie lands to settlement by the Rohirrim. However, he struck a hard bargain in that those settlers had to answer to Minas Anor before Edoras.

Many Rohirrim chieftains chafed at the expansion of their people without an expansion of their country. Tinsereg sympathized with their position, but he also understood King Eldarion's decision not to cut the Reunited Kingdom in half. It was the only real solution to prevent a crisis and potential famine in Rohan, but the relationship between the two kingdoms had soured afterward.

"They are still of your people's blood, Excellency. Your hand will be forced whether Elagor crosses the Isen into either Rohan or the Durwaith-Iaur. Your own people will demand it!"

"My own people," King Éodred sounded sorely cross, "My own people! You dare tell me of my own people!" The old king looked an irate stick figure that, if he didn't sit on a very real throne with very real power, he would have made quite a comical sight. "The _eóreds_ of the Far Mark have turned away from Edoras, from the ways of our people!

"They raise horses in the fields sure enough, but they live in villages and cities in the manner of _your_ people. Even the folk of the coasts make small boats and fish! _Fish_! The Eorlingas were not made to fish!"

"That maybe, Excellency," Tinsereg started. "But they will flood Rohan with refugees and—"

"And it's not just them!" the King continued, ignoring the Gondorian prince. "You saw the city as you came in. You people have turned the jewel of the Kingdom of the Mark of Rohan into a _Gondorian_ city! Your people do more business here than our own! The people speak the Westron of Gondor, they dress as Gondorians and they have little interest in the ways of their own people!"

"Father," Prince Éohelm said as he suddenly entered. "It is time for you get some rest."

The Prince affectionately picked his protesting father up and carried him into the back rooms through the door he came in. When he returned he apologized for his father saying, "Since he's recovered from the Saddle Sickness, his mind has been waning."

"No apologies necessary."

"Still, he does make a good point," Prince Éohelm continued. "Many of our people are resentful. We are surrounded by Gondor. Isenguard is now garrisoned by Gondor -- I hear half the Ents there returned to Fangorn after that, by the way. And even the peoples between our northern boarder and Lothlórian bow to the White Throne. You've built a great city on the banks of the Entwash for your traders on _our land_, yet Edoras sees little profits from it. Our people see their culture dying right in front of them and being replaced with yours."

"So, I take it that you are actually in charge now," Tinsereg said, wanting to change the subject.

Prince Éohelm smiled, but he seemed saddened. "True, the Marshals now take my orders in lieu of my father. Yet that gives me little peace. My father is weary of life, but weary of your kind even more. Nothing but hatred has he to say these days. It's all that sustains him.

"Personally, I do not share his opinion, but many Riders do and I cannot speak ill of them. When I come to my throne I will need those Riders. The fact that my father still lives is what mostly keeps them peaceful. When he does die though-" the prince shook his head with a worried expression, thinking of the compromises he will have to make with the recalcitrant Riders to come to his inheritance. "They wish to oppose Elagor, keep him off our land."

"That will not work. The Host of Arnor is far too strong, and even if you do succeed, there is no telling what plans the White Tower has planned for Rohan."

"Or Calenardhon." It was a bitter joke, bitterly delivered. Calenardhon being the name of the Gondorian grassland before it was gifted to Eorl and his Riders. "If we cross swords with Elagor the High Queen Aldanna promises free reign for the Eorlingas in Rómenondor. But, as it is said in the Mark these days: _beware Gondorians bearing gifts_. And this gift seems too good to be true to my ears."

It was a relief to Tinsereg that Prince Éohelm had a discerning eye. It seems Queen Mother Esgaler wishes the Rohirrim to weaken themselves fighting Elagor, slowing him down to give her enough time to marshal all of Gondor-proper for whatever else she had in mind.

Then, if the Eorlingas survive Elagor, they will be either too weak to oppose anyone or she'll try to have them fight the Easterlings who have invaded the eastern territories of the Reunited Kingdom. That she's willing to gift them Rómenondor is proof of that. _Give them a reason to fight for it_. There was enough history between the Rohirrim and the Wainriders to whip them up in a battle frenzy.

_What does she plan for Pelatur then_, he wondered. She must be hoping that he falls to an Easterling's sword.

_So what is her plan for me_? With Elagor and the Rohirrim fighting, she could concentrate on the Wainriders. Keep them out of Ithilien. _Or leave them Rómenondor for a time so as to deal with me and what's left of Elagor's host before retaking it_. With Rohan's strength severely bled, that would leave her the only functional army in the West. It would be an easy feat to annex Rohan afterwards, no matter if the Rohirrim had Rómenondor open to them or not.

Arnor could be dealt with later.

It was a flawed plan, but it could work.

"I can assure you that it is Esgaler who controls the White Tower," was all Tinsereg could say. "And that she has no good will in mind for you or your people."

"I have been many times to Minas Anor, I know its politics better than you are aware," the Prince of Rohan said. "The Dúnedain believe themselves above -- superior -- to all others. They're no better. Aldanna is merely Esgaler's shield with which she plots behind; just like the Dúnedain use their pride as a shield. Poor girl. I sympathize with Elagor's claim, yet it is not my wish to see Gondor in flames as many other Riders would."

"That is why you must help me," Tinsereg pleaded. "Let me pass and speak to my brother. Mayhaps I can redirect his aims."

Prince Éohelm was of quick mind and caught Tinsereg's meaning immediately. "Have Elagor assail the Easterlings?" He was doubtful. He knew that the wrath of Crown Prince was no easy thing quiet once it was set on a target.

"I have had news of the army as Minas Anor as well. It will be many weeks yet until they have their full strength gathered. The White Tower is only pulling out its garrisons in the western territories in waves. They were waiting for Elagor to make the first move. If I can convince my brother to liberate Rómenondor, will you let his army pass unmolested?"

If the Arnorian host passes through Rohan quickly, then Minas Anor won't have the strength to impede their pass into Rómenondor. However, then a look came over Éohelm that Tinsereg immediately didn't like.

"Then you have not heard," he said darkly.

A million thoughts raced through Tinsereg's mind, all ill.

"Elagor was poisoned by an assassin's dart on the road south," Éohelm explained. "He is in Dunland in the care of those ill-begotten folk. His army has halted there until their General either heals or dies."

Prince Tinsereg backed down as if struck by a blow. Then, "I do not know what comfort I can bring to him or his family. Nor do I know what promises to give to you, but I know that these times demand my presence."

Prince Éohelm thought this over for a while. It seemed to him that this Gondorian prince was run to near exhaustion, though his heart was stalwart and true. "Will the Arnorian host follow you?"

"No," Tinsereg answered. "They will follow Turgor who is just as hot tempered as his father, if not more so."

Again, Prince Éohelm thought at length before answering. "I will not allow Rohan to be a neutral conduit for a dynastic war, preyed upon by both sides. Nor will I have the battlefield be the plains of the Far Mark where my people dwell in peace. Yet, I know that Rohan will not long survive unless we back the winner of this conflict, and even then, that is uncertain. But I will put my faith in you, for I believe you are the only one who can bring us all out of this darkness."

A heavy weight was lifted off of Prince Tinsereg's shoulders, but he felt a new one take its place. He bowed deeply to Prince Éohelm. "I will do all I can not to have your faith in me be in vain."

"You'd better." The Prince of Rohan then turned as if to walk back to his chambers. "Have the leader of the Host of Arnor come to Edoras to negotiate with me and Steward Heremir. The fate of all the West will be decided then. Or not, if you should fail."

---


	9. Chapter 8: Pelatur's Advice

"To Prince Mithrim:

"Haradrim are pressing Umbar in large numbers. The border is punctured in several locations. Enemy is organized into many small tribal bands. Fighting is fierce, but no large-scale engagement as of yet. Casualties on both sides so far have been light.

"Need instruction on how to proceed. Do we have authority to call up peasant levies? If enemy is pushed back, are we authorized to pursue? If so, how far into the Haradwaith are we to do so?

(signed)

General Fuinur:

XXIII Fox Legion, Bar-en-Umbar"

---

---

Tinsereg had drunk more than he had wanted to. The Queen can be nerve rattling to deal with. All night he had heard snide, droll comments and ill words directed towards Arientari and himself, stopping just shy of calling her a whore. Although other lords and nobles of the Reunited Kingdom had looser tongues.

Merethrond was not just a Feast Hall; there also were several salons and one bath. Now that the banquet was over all the guests had begun to filter into these back rooms for "afterwards."

Most of these gatherings were as semiformal as aristocracies got. Lords and notables came together to exchange news and ideas from all over Imperial Gondor. They were actually begun by King Elessar as a means of better connecting the disparate South and North Kingdoms of his realm during the first years of his reign when his hold on the North was tenuous at best.

However, not all the salons were of noble purpose. And the ones of Cirimir, Steward Heremir's son, were approaching legendary.

He was a slender, tall man, and regarded by most as being remarkably handsome. His hair was golden yellow, harkening back to his Rohirrim ancestry, and his eyes were bright and cheerful and restless.

He wore the three quarter inch wide ceremonial sword blade naked at his side. The hilt was made of smooth ivory with a small metal pommel specially fashioned in the manner of the "idol of the masculine" (whatever that means).

When Tinsereg came across him standing just inside a door, he was near hopelessly drunk, but could still talk clearly from much practice. Prince Cirimir knew the rules of civility as well as anyone. He lived off them, and in their perversions.

He was waiting outside the door for the rest of his guests to arrive; not wanting to be seen as rude by beginning without them. Cirimir invited the Prince inside, but when Tinsereg politely refused the Steward's son tried to sweeten the deal.

"Oh, that's right. You prefer indigenies, yes," he began. "I like that. A taste for the exotic, eh?" He laughed. "Please, my lord, come see."

Cirimir pushed the door more open and there inside were young lords and ladies in various states of undress, all drinking and reveling. The rest were mostly women, all nude with collars around their necks. Tinsereg figured that they must be hired _professionals_, or personal servants who didn't have a choice.

"Along the Eastern wall we have Rhovanion and Easterling ladies for your pleasure," Cirimir introduced. "Along the Southern wall are the Haradrim, of which I'm sure you're very familiar, but perhaps a bit tired of, and all the other indigenies are scattered about. We even have some _Periannath_ if your tastes lean that way," he smiled.

Tinsereg painfully groaned as he turned away, inflicted by a sudden headache.

"Prince Tinsereg!" a lady's voice within the room called out.

Amlóma came bounding towards him. Her long blond wavy hair, oiled to look like golden glossy paraffin, swayed behind her. She wore naught but a translucent robe of a thin white fabric that rippled at her small feet.

She and Cirimir put their arms around each other when she came up. "Aren't you coming in," she asked.

"No."

"Oh, don't be that way." Her words came beneath those same clearest, bluest of blue eyes Tinsereg had known when she was just a little girl. "Even for us Dúnedain, life is short."

"I was just about to say that," Cirimir added. "Come on inside. You'll have fun."

"Yes, please," Amlóma playfully pleaded. "Your brother Mithrim is no fun at all, and Ciryaher is oftentimes too drunk."

"I have other business to attend to."

Amlóma breathed out a big "Oh", like she knew what he was talking about. "Your wife can come join us as well."

"Yes," Cirimir agreed, his eyes widening with expectant joy. "Hey, I don't envy you a morsel. I've heard stories about her. Southron women -- _hmmmmrgh_! Fetch her and bring her here. Here--" he said holding his arms out, "she's more than welcome."

He held up his vulgar sword hilt and began twisting it in the air. Half a heartbeat later he was down on the ground, blood gushing from his nose.

Amlóma laughed.

Despite his shock at her reaction, the only thing Tinsereg could concentrate on was her laugh. That strange music that sounded like morning bells in the cold frost. _It hasn't changed a bit in all these years_, Tinsereg thought, struggling against a tugging feeling in his chest. The cutest little girl had grown remarkably.

Tinsereg walked alone down a side corridor of Merethrond desperately trying to think about something else.

His hand was still sore.

The sounds of laughter and merriment wafted though the air like choking aromas from a candle.

The walls were of bright white marble that softly reflected the light from the high sconces. They were lined with frescos, with black marble pillars set between the paintings of history and heroes.

When Tinsereg turned a corner he saw a few young Gondorian knights playing a game. They had half drunken thin bottles of wine set up as pins they were trying to knock down with an unopened fat one. The bottle smashed into the others, breaking two of them. The knights cheered.

Then they got into a fight over the score. Two of them drew their swords. The blades were ceremonial, thin and dull, etched with heraldic symbols and family prayers, and began fighting with them.

When they separated Tinsereg grabbed one of their blades with his bare hand.  
"That sword is neither toy nor weapon," he said with a sour tone. "It stands for honor. Respect it."

The knight gave him an incredulous look. "I don't take orders from traitors."

The other one made a move against his Prince.

"STAND BACK!" Tinsereg's eyes flared and the other knight fell back against the wall. The others thought it better to slink away before anything else happened.

Pelatur came around the other corner. "What's going on here?" He saw the bottles and the growing puddle of wine on the floor. "Sereg, what happened here?"

"These knights require to be sent to their beds to sleep off their stupor."

"But we've got a party to go to," the knight whose sword Tinsereg held meekly whined.

"These are my men," Pelatur said.

Tinsereg looked at the badge over the knight's heart. It was the sunburst of Rómenondor. He nodded _yes_.

"What right do you have to do this," Pelatur said acrimoniously.

"These are our father's men, not just yours."

Pelatur walked up close to his younger brother. "I don't require you to discipline _my_ men," he said.

Tinsereg let go of the sword, but he didn't flinch away from his brother's stare.

"Thank you, lord," the knight said.

"Get out of here," Pelatur shouted at him, still locked in a war of wills with his brother. The knight complied. "What are you doing?"

"I didn't like what they were doing, Pel."

"You have no idea what goes on in this place," Pelatur accused. "This was nothing... happens all the time. Nobody cares. What really matters is _this_ and _this._" He pointed to his own golden sun badge, and Tinsereg's waxing moon. "Protection. Who you are, and who you belong to. You know that."

"I belong to our father, the High King."

"So do we all. That's not good enough," Pelatur retorted. "You don't have backing of the nobility of Gondor. That limits you. You can't get away with anything. One more mistake, even the slightest infraction, and the Court will run you out of here and father will no longer be able to stop them."

Usually Tinsereg would have left things there, but he'd been drinking. "And just what was my prior mistake," he challenged.

"You're not that naive, so don't pretend to be." Pelatur stopped, obviously agitated. "You just had to marry her, didn't you? You just -- had to."

"And what else should I have done," Tinsereg asked angrily.

"Well, you didn't have to marry her! Don't drive her away... keep her around, but... God Above, what were you thinking bringing her here!"

"She is my wife; she deserves her position at the royal table--"

"No. She. Does. Not. She's Haradrim, she has no place here."

Tinsereg had had enough. "She is the mother of my son; her place is by my side. And she is innocent compared to this place."

Pelatur had his own flaws, worse than Tinsereg's by any measure, yet nobody paid his much mind. Pel kept them beneath the surface, away from scrutiny, and so nobody cared. Tinsereg knew though, practically everyone who was in the Palace of the High King while the sons were growing up knew. But it was treated as only gossip. Just one more rumor for wagging lips.

"Don't presume so much," his brother warned. "Mothers and wives are two very different things. And marriages can be annulled quite easily if the right people decide it should be."

"Is that so," Tinsereg said with all the defiance he could muster.

"Don't you understand," Pelatur spit out. "It's not about you. She doesn't love you. You're nothing but a powerful man to be conquered by her confident charms. Don't you see that? That woman will be the ruin of you!"

"Perhaps you should take that lesson to your heart as well." Tinsereg walked past his brother and continued down the hall.

"The women of lesser kindreds are not like our own! Who knows what goes on in their hearts? Don't be cuckolded by her!" Pelatur called after him. "You knew she'd never be accepted here! You were only asking for trouble! And trouble is what you'll get!"

---

It was time for Tinsereg to sleep. The sooner this night was over, the better. He gathered his family together, and left Merethrond.

The nobles who preferred being early to bed were filling out into the Court of the Fountain. The rabble, their beggings already eaten, had been cleared out earlier by the Citadel Guards to keep them out of sight.

Tinsereg took a deep breath of the crisp, clean March air. The stars were shinning bright in the black sky. There was Eärnendil, sailing high in sky, lighting the way to the Uttermost West. And Elwing, in the form of a great bird, rose above the northern horizon to meet her husband on his nightly voyage.

He looked back down toward Earth and continued his way down the stairs. The others were heading towards the guest housing manses on the level below the Citadel. However, Tinsereg led his family to Palace of the High King, where rooms were readied for them.

Arientari asked what was wrong. "The usual," Tinsereg responded. "Nothing we need be too concerned about." It was only half a lie and Arientari picked up on that, of course. She always did.

"I saw a fresco of Hyarmendacil I pounding a Harad King into the ground with his mace," she said, mercifully changing the subject.

"What a ghastly image," Tinsereg responded.

---


	10. Chapter 9: Dunland

"General Fuinur: the White Tower requires that you better qualify the enemy presence in Umbar before we send in reinforcements. Due to the current crisis with our Arnorian province the bulk of Gondor's power must be around the capital and our western domains. Few can be spared.

"With more accurate figures your need can be better assessed and the correct amount of help from Gondor can be sent. Focus on maintaining Bar-en-Umbar. The defense of the harbor is the paramount concern to Minas Anor. Defend it at all cost.

"The Eyes of the White Tower have seen that the Prince Tinsereg has left Harondor, leaving the Haradrim woman in charge. Watch Umbar's northern border. Do not trust the ship captains from Hyarmentur in the harbor, they have been appointed by Tinsereg and he and his counsel is suspect.

"Reports from the last year's audit of the Umbar garrison tell us that more than enough troops are already under your command for the near future. Send weekly reports to the White Tower concerning the progress of the conflict.

(signed)

High Queen Aldanna of the Reunited Kingdom"

---

---

"I have someone I want you to meet," Steward Heremir said, leading Tinsereg out of the back rooms of the Golden Hall. They came out into the main hall from behind the throne. "All the walls have ears here—the Hall was designed that way, to keep secrets unsecret and promote honesty—that's why we have to whisper open spaces. No echo," he warned.

There was a Citadel Guardsman standing in the center of the Hall warming his hands on the hearth fire. The nights in Rohan can grow very brisk. The cold air comes in from the south off the White Mountains.

Tinsereg was always suspicious, and this dark hall raised the hairs on his neck. He palmed the handle of his dagger in his belt.

"He's one of mine," the Steward said.

The Guardsman turned to watch the Steward and the Prince approach. He seemed jumpy, nervous; like he knew something he didn't like was going to happen. Heremir was still loyal to Queen Mother Esgaler, this could be an assassination. King Éodred wouldn't have objected.

"This is Sûlamrath, Guard of the Citadel," Heremir introduced.

The Guard bowed formally. He was sweating profusely, his woolen undershirt deeply stained and the smell of it stung Tinsereg's nostrils. The Prince returned the bow with the slightest of nods, never taking his eyes off the Guard.

"He has some information from Minas Anor," the Steward continued. "He's only told me so far, and I thought you ought to know as well."

The Guard shuffled close to Tinsereg. The Prince readied himself against any sudden moves. "I was assigned to your younger brother," he began in a deep low whisper.

"Half brother," Tinsereg corrected him.

"As you please... Highness." He couldn't continue.

"Start again," the old Steward advised.

"Your—half brother... has been wed to your sister," he finally spit out.

A shocking chill went right through Tinsereg like ice cold water.

"I was assigned to... to the consummation... of their union," the Guard continued to mumble.

Tinsereg's eyes shone like they were on fire. It took all his will power not to strangle the Guardsman right there. Sûlamrath quailed at the sight of the Prince, but the Steward kept him on his feet.

"Who presided over their union," Tinsereg asked, the words spoken with the deliberate precision necessary to push them through intense rage.

"The Qu-qu-qu-queen Mother... she... she... oversaw the ceremony. Along with the Supreme Cleric of the Valar."

_The Supreme Cleric?_ "Why," he asked.

"Esgaler means to have Mithrim sit the throne," said Steward Heremir as if it were obvious. _And it was._ "The other high lords of Gondor-proper don't seem all that concerned about it. Besides the Supreme Cleric declared the two second cousins, thus allowing the marriage to occur."

"How?"

Heremir shrugged. "Everything has the air of legitimacy."

_What line will they not cross_, wondered Tinsereg.

"Please know, Highness. Aldanna-"

"Don't! use her name," Tinsereg threatened.

"Let him continue," Heremir interjected.

"The Queen struggled until the end," Sûlamrath continued. "I was ordered to hold her legs down." Tinsereg walked up until he was mere inches from Sûlamrath's face. "I couldn't disobey a direct order."

Tinsereg kept his gaze fixed upon the Citadel Guard. "You will serve me now," he said after a minute. "Until such time as I find a proper way for you to redeem your honor."

Citadel Guard Sûlamrath trembled as he bowed and Steward Heremir gave him leave to return to his quarters.

"The marriage was formalized after Aldanna's coronation. So Prince Mithrim will now automatically be High King. Hail King Ar-Pharazôn!" he laughed. "This changes things, doesn't it," Heremir asked Tinsereg.

Tinsereg could only nod affirmatively.

"I love Gondor," the old Steward said watching the Guard quickly exit. "But I can no longer abide by her. Now that you know, what are you going to do?"

Tinsereg took a deep sigh to steady himself. "Elagor cannot know."

"That much is certain."

"He would burn the whole of Gondor to ashes for such a thing." _It would deserve it._

"I know you mean to distract your brother into fighting the Easterlings."

Prince Tinsereg eyed the Steward with a questioning gaze.

"Wasn't that difficult to figure out," said the Steward. "We share the same desire. The Reunited Kingdom must survive."

If Tinsereg's motives were that transparent, then Esgaler would surely know it. Tinsereg worried now more than ever that his plots would be countered by that wily and devious Queen Mother. So far, he'd achieved nothing. All his well thought plans were as smoke in a drafty room. One well timed breath, and they were gone.

"Rohan must survive," Tinsereg said gravely.

"Then we need a plan."

"How can I trust you?"

The old man frowned in mock thought. "I guess you can't. But, ever since you were a boy you've always kept people at arms length. How can _I_ trust you?"

---

Dunland was a gray land in the shadows of the lower Misty Mountains. The grasses and leaves were green, but there seemed to be a thin film, a shade, upon the colors of this land. The forests of its hills appeared dark and uninviting.

The impact of Arnor's army became immediately apparent. The higher hills were cleared where fortified outposts overlooking the Isen had been built. He passed a deep ford where the water came up the horses' bellies and entered the North Kingdom of Arnor.

Tinsereg decided that it was a good time to ride out in the full bravura of a Prince of Gondor. Sûlamrath took up his new post on Tinsereg's left. His other Guards saw the badge of Ithilien, a black throne on white, on his breast and questioned the new addition to their ranks. Tinsereg said that the new Guard was bonded to him on an urgent errand. They accepted Sûlamrath after that, but were still suspicious of his nervous demeanor.

Long blasts from an ivory and silver horn announced the Prince of Harondor's coming.

Answering blows from the outposts were the code to halt and wait. Tinsereg ignored them and boldly took the path up one of the forested hills; there they were met by legionaries carrying long pikes.

"I am Tinsereg, Prince of Gondor, and younger brother to your lord and King. I have come to be with him and his during this time of need."

Elagor's army had turned southern Dunland into an armed camp. Wooden holdfasts, hidden in the forests or in the center of clearings, dotted a path which slowly became a road. Dunlending natives appeared to have been drafted into the main workforce. They carried pails, wood logs, and tent canvases, although the construction of the holdfasts themselves bore the marks of the legionaries.

The main holdfast was in fact a small motte and bailey castle. Tinsereg was escorted over a small dry mote filled with spikes and past the gate in the ten foot tall outer wall. The outer courtyard was filled with barracks, smithies, and tent rows. The inner courtyard was behind another ten foot wall of upraised wood logs and it housed the officer quarters, stables, and the central administrative keep.

Lord Redbarad of Hollin, the man in charge of the defenses, sat at his desk, intent on the maps in front of him. He glanced up at Tinsereg and then quickly returned to his maps. "So... what are your intentions here?"

The Lord of Hollin was a bearded, barrel chested man. He had been in talks with High King Elaldar about his daughter, Amlóma, being married to Tinsereg. Despite the fact that he was a mere third son, he was of the Imperial Family and that connection could be advantageous in the future. He even continued to pursue the match after Tinsereg married Arientari, suing the King to annul the marriage. Elaldar remained aloof to his demands. Naturally, Lord Redbarad had little good will for Tinsereg.

_This is a problem_, he thought. "I only wish to be with my brother," he answered.

Lord Redbarad seemed skeptical. "Really?"

"My only—"

"Come over here and look at this," Lord Redbarad said, pointing at the map.

Prince Tinsereg walked around the table. The map was of the defenses put up in Dunland. The vast majority of the emplacements were in the south and along the western border. However, there was a strong presence in the north east. Tinsereg asked about it, and Lord Redbarad explained that they were worried about orcs coming out the Misty Mountains, catching in them unawares.

"So... what do you think?"

"These are all the trails in this forest," Tinsereg asked.

"All we've found, sure there are more."

"What's this star," Tinsereg asked, pointing at a small star inked on the map.

"That is the village where your brother, the King, rests."

Tinsereg tried to hide his excitement, quickly memorizing a way to get there. "This is a good map. The defenses seem strong. I doubt any small band could sneak past, unless they're natives, of course. Congratulations."

Lord Redbarad nodded. "I cannot allow you to see your brother," he finally said without looking up.

"Do you honestly believe I would harm him?"

"I know you would never take an order from Queen Mother Esgaler," Lord Redbarad started. "Queen Aldanna, though, now that's another matter."

_So_, Tinsereg thought. _They're playing that card, trying to use my sister against me_. "My sister is nothing but a puppet monarch." To say more would have been too painful, and he hoped Lord Redbarad would not mention her name again.

"Loyalty is a strange thing," Lord Redbarad said. "These times prove that. You are, after all, still married to that whore after all the trouble it has caused you. My orders are to keep all outsiders from the King."

_Does he honestly think I'd take an order from Arientari to kill my brother_, Tinsereg muttered to himself. _No. He's just toying with me_.

"Whom do your orders come from?"

"High Queen Celebras," Lord Redbarad answered. "Sometimes it's Crown Prince Turgor."

The thought of making the claim that he comes from Edoras with a message for Elagor flashed though his mind, but he didn't want to confuse the issue. "How then do I become an insider," Prince Tinsereg asked.

---

After swearing unconditional loyalty to High King Elagor of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, Tinsereg was allowed to visit his brother.

On his way there the troop strength of the Arnorian fortifications increased. The village itself was totally destroyed, and in its place was another strong motte and bailey castle. Double outer walls behind a wide, deep moat greeted Tinsereg. The outer courtyard housed and supported an entire legion; the inner courtyard had all of Elagor's Citadel Guard. There were almost no Dunlendings milling about.

He passed Elagor's two sons standing guard in the antechamber of the keep.

"How is he," Tinsereg asked.

"Better, now," said Turgor.

"It was hard going even a short time ago," Barahir added. The two brothers glanced at each other. Tinsereg knew they weren't telling him everything, but they did let their uncle pass without complaint. Tinsereg's brother lay on a soft feather bed, and looked remarkably well.

"Ah, Sereg, brother!" he shouted. Tinsereg was shocked at the strength in the voice. "So you've come to aid me in our rescue mission to free Aldanna from the clutches of that evil, evil woman."

Celebras, sitting next to the bed, said, "We've been expecting you."

"Come, sit at my side, brother." He seemed so jovial (more so than Tinsereg had ever seen him) that the only evidence of his ordeal was the bandage around his neck.

"I am... so pleased that you are well, brother." Tinsereg let emotion into his voice.

Elagor pulled at the cloth around his neck to reveal the stitched hole. "Thought they could get me with only a simple dart in the neck," he jested.

"Still, how has your recovery come at such speed?"

"The assassin and poison was Dunlending," Elagor explained.

"Local apothecaries knew what the poison was and exactly how to treat it," Celebras finished.

"Local?" It seemed strange that Celebras and her sons would allow a Dunlending to treat Elagor since the assassin was also a Dunlending.

"The Dunlendings have not openly opposed the Reunited Kingdom for two hundred years. They want to better their lot and the Reunited Kingdom is never going away," Elagor answered.

"They see backing us in our claim as their best chance of gaining the favor of their betters," said Celebras.

_Why should the Dunlendings feel the need to seek for favor_, wondered Tinsereg. The answer was simple enough and it soon came to him. _History_.

When the Rohirrim began moving West of the Isen with the blessing of High King Eldarion the Dunlendings began raiding these settlements. Although technically Dunland was subject to Arnor, Eldarion felt it best for the Rohirrim to defend themselves. What resulted later became known as the Rape of Dunland, and High King Eldarion regretted his noninterference to his death.

Three years later the High King refused Rohan's request to annex the province and ordered the Eorlingas to evacuate. They did so without complaint, leaving behind a burnt and devastated land. Quietly, so as not to arouse the disregard of the Dúnedain, Eldarion had his son, the Lord of Arnor, smuggle aid to the devastated and scattered Dunlendings.

_Elagor has probably benefited greatly from Grandfather's guilty generosity_, guessed Tinsereg. He stepped further into the room, wondering how best to proceed. He stopped and sat at another chair opposite Celebras.

"Have you heard news," he asked.

"Gondor's army is marshaling around Minas Anor, hoping the Rohirrim to stall me in the west," his brother answered quickly. "They also keep a strong force in Anfalas in case I move there into the Western Provinces."

"You know much then."

"My scouts are the best," Elagor complimented himself.

"The Steward Heremir is at Edoras now," Celebras continued, "negotiating with the Rohirrim as we speak."

"And what of Pelatur to the east?"

Elagor and Celebras shared a look of confusion. They hadn't heard. Tinsereg explained, in as much detail as he could, that the Easterlings had broken the Rómenram and flooded Rómenondor by the hundreds of thousands, trapping their brother in Rómendacilbar. Haradrim had also sent skirmishers into Umbar and perhaps Harondor as well.

The two of them took the news in stride. Then Tinsereg continued, "I have just come from Edoras. Crown Prince Éohelm wants Rohan to suffer as little as possible from our fight. If you go to war with the Wainriders, he will allow you to pass freely through his lands."

"My fight is with Minas Anor," Elagor claimed. "When I am King, I will move East."

"And have a large hostile army to front and behind?" Tinsereg challenged.

"We'll have a large hostile army in front and behind whether we go to the East or Minas Anor."

"With Rohan's help, you will have a strong rear guard," Tinsereg said. "If you go straight to Minas Anor they will stay neutral and do nothing—letting us bleed each other to death while the Wainriders catch you with your back to the City."

"Or, we could avoid Rohan altogether and march straight south into Western Gondor," Elagor suggested. "Leave the Wainriders to Esgaler."

"And fight all the way through Gondor?" Tinsereg challenged. "Cross how many rivers and take how many strongly fortified castles, cities, and towns? How many men will you have left when you reach the White City?"

"How many will that bitch have left when I'm done with her?"

"Will you abandon our brother in the East?"

"He has his own battles to fight. I have mine."

"They are one and the same."

"It was Esgaler who did this to me!" Elagor exploded, pointing at his neck.

"I'm not doubting that!" Tinsereg shouted back. "You can have a powerful ally in Rohan and a victory in the East will make you the people's champion. I'm giving you the chance to come to the White City the savior of the Empire."

It was not a burst of inspiration. This argument was the first he had thought of back in Maeglad. In convincing his brother, Tinsereg had known from the beginning that some theatrics would be necessary.

"You're giving me the chance..." Elagor's tone suggested that he already thought himself a savior.

"Rohan does not need to be an obstacle to you," Tinsereg finished, physically and emotionally drained. He hoped the subtlety of his argument had taken hold. The Oath of Eorl was to the King of Gondor.

"We should counter the Steward Heremir's efforts in Rohan irregardless of our move afterward," Celebras said. "Besides, the Steward may provide useful information on Esgaler's plans."

Elagor, however, still seemed unimpressed. "There is always a price for an ally's allegiance."

"The King wants to meet with you," Tinsereg continued. "Rohan's survival is at stake."

"I will not be distracted from my rightful inheritance," he said.

"That is not my intent, brother King."

"You would put me on the wrong side of the River."

"Then cross it."

The glory hound in his brother had been awakened; if Tinsereg could answer all his questions Elagor would be sold. That would give Tinsereg the time he needed to think of a way out of this mess. He glanced at Celebras, knowing she would be the only one who could derail his plan now. She didn't seem willing to intervene.

"What of your Harondor army?"

Tinsereg really didn't know how much help his forces would be. His army was primarily made up of peasant levies whom Tinsereg doubted could stand up to their Gondorian counterparts. When not out in the fields the peasants of Gondor and Arnor drilled for military campaigns either on their own or in conjunction with legions and cavalry. That made them some of the best part time soldiers in Middle-earth. It was a holdover from when Gondor was pressed for manpower at the tail end of the Era of the Stewards. Elessar continued to maintain the practice to keep up the troop levels needed to conquer and secure his empire's frontiers.

"It remains; I came with just myself and my guard."

"Who rules Harondor in your stead," Celebras asked.

"My wife," Tinsereg didn't lie.

"That was foolish," Elagor said wincing. "I may have to rescue both Rómenondor and Harondor now."

_He was sold!_ Tinsereg kept the smile from his face. _Now I just hope we'll be talking to Prince Éohelm instead of his father._

---

In three days time, Elagor was well enough to travel. He left Lord Redbarad in command of his army in Dunland and took with him only the Citadel Guard legion of Annúminas to Edoras. All three thousand of them.

"What of our envoys to the garrison at Isenguard?" Elagor asked.

"They're being overly cautious," Turgor answered. "The commander is waiting to see whom fate favors."

Elagor grimaced. "We'll have to deal with him then. Get a message to Lord Redbarad to besiege Isenguard with ten thousand legionnaires."

"Yes, father King." Turgor called a messenger to the front of the column.

"Is that really necessary," Tinsereg asked.

"There are those who are loyal to me and then there are my enemies," Elagor answered. "No one can sit on the sidelines of this struggle. If the Isenguard commander won't willingly give me his hand, then I will force it."

"There is no luxury of a choice when the High King summons," Barahir added.

"Then what will you do with the commander?"

"If he submits then I will accept him, brother," Elagor said, and then he smiled. "If he doesn't submit quickly, although, then he's a dead man."

With all the Citadel Guardsmen on the flanks it was difficult to see where they were going. Elagor took so many with him because the scouts reported a huge army had amassed on the other side of the river. When they came out from beneath the trees, they suddenly realized that the scouts weren't embellishing.

Across the Isen Ford there stood the famed Rohirrim Riders. They arrayed themselves on both sides of the beaten dirt road, five rows deep and seemingly to the horizon. The sun glinted off the spears and polished scale mail armor. There must have been over two hundred thousand of them. It was a dramatic display of Rohan's power.

Apparently, these Riders were to be their escort to Edoras. It was an eerie, disquieting feeling to have a hundred thousand Rohirrim on either side of them. Tinsereg felt the weight of their presence and the message Meduseld was sending to them. _Tread carefully, for we are strong as well._

Elagor didn't share his brother's opinion. After all, what could the best Rider do that any of his knights couldn't? They could take no special pride in their horses or horsemanship. Every Arnorian lord worth his castle had a Rohirrim stableman and horsemaster. His own horse was descended of those husbanded in Rohan, as were all his other lords. His army dwarfed this rabble of stableboys as well. _At least they made the attempt to impress me_, he chuckled to himself. _Give credit where credit's due_.

At Edoras there were even more Riders. A huge camp had been set up surrounding the city that Tinsereg guessed contained all the power of Rohan.

Long had the Eorlingas slept, sheltered within the Reunited Kingdom, growing increasingly restless. It had been three centuries since Rohan was tested. Always in the background, the Rohirrim watched the power of Gondor grow. The Dúnedain gobbled up all the glory there was to have and to steal, and squabbled amongst themselves as to who held the greater share. For three centuries Gondor has been pressing against their kingdom, stressing it, squeezing it like a coiled spring. Now it was ready to snap back.

Meduseld was ready for war.

---


	11. Chapter 10: Queen's Ultimatum

"Owing to his inept lordship of the East and his ineffectual handling of the Wainrider invasion, the most recent offense to Gondor being the loss of Rómendacilbar, Jewel of the East, to the Easterling barbarians, Prince Pelatur is stripped of his Lord Governorship over Rómenondor by official decree of the White Throne. He is to be taken under heavy guard to Minas Anor to answer for his mismanagement.

"The Lord Governorship of Rómenondor is to be passed onto Lord Artaron XXXI of Edhellond, and all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereof.

(signed)

High King Mithrim I of the Reunited Kingdom"

---

---

"Why did we come here?" Arientari asked.

"What do you mean?" Tinsereg asked back.

They were lying in bed, the cool mountain air kept at bay by the covers and the soft fire in the hearth at the far wall. They stayed in one of the Royal Apartments of the Palace. On the floor above them slept the High King. Iandil was gently resting in the adjoining room.

They're conversation was whispered so as not to wake their son.

"You knew what was going to happen here," she said. "Why put yourself through all this?"

"This is now the third century of the Fourth Age," Tinsereg answered. "How could I miss it?"

Arientari gave him an incredulous look.

"Besides," he continued. "He's my father."

"Family does put many obligations onto us," she conceded, opening her husband up to elaborate.

"I don't want to be here," he said. "But in a way, I have to be. I have to prove to all of them," he waved his hand, signifying the whole of Palace, "that I'm not afraid of them. That their talk won't keep me away from my family."

"But you have a family," she said. "We're your family. And you have a good home back in the South. This is not a kind place."

"Then what should I do?" It was a rhetorical question. "Let them criticize and chastise me from afar, without ever seeing my face?"

"How is it any better if you are here?"

"At least I can defend myself here."

"But will they ever listen?" Arientari didn't need an answer. She knew it already.

"No," Tinsereg said anyway.

Arientari snuggled closer to her husband, pressing her naked body against his. "You are a great man," she said. "You are truly kingly... and they can never take that away from you. No matter what happens _you_ will always be the King of Oasis and Sand."

_That was a new one_, Tinsereg thought. _I wonder if that's an old title of their own rulers. I wonder..._ Arientari was trying to goad him to do something, Tinsereg knew. He planned on playing along until he found out exactly what her intentions were. Tinsereg smiled and cupped her breast in his hand. "I am only what you made me."

There was a knock at the door. A servant boy came in and said that the Queen was here and wished to speak with the Prince. "Alone," he added with emphasis.

Tinsereg rolled out of bed and donned a silk-lined robe.

High Queen Esgaler was sitting on a marble bench along the marble wall of the antechamber to Tinsereg's room. Amlóma sat next to her and two Citadel Guardsmen stood at the bench edges with another at the door.

Both the women had changed into formal evening ware.

The Prince and his two guests quickly went through the polite procedure of bows, no formal introductions were necessary. Tinsereg gently refused the request to sit. "What are you doing here," he asked brusquely.

"Now now now," the Queen said with a steely smile. "Is that any way to address the High Queen of the West?"

"This is my chamber."

"Of my Palace."

"What do you want, Your Grace?"

"A little chat," the Queen responded. "No more."

"Is _she_ here?" asked Amlóma.

Tinsereg nodded.

"Agh, don't speak of such things," the Queen looked away in pedicured disgust. "That is not a sight I wish to think of."

"Then perhaps you can say what's on your mind and then leave," Tinsereg suggested. "Your Grace," he added on.

The Queen pursed her lips together, but then continued. "Your marriage has caused quite the uproar in the Court."

"Then that's the Court's problem," Tinsereg responded. "Not mine."

"Oh, but it is," the Queen said, standing up. "The Court is fond of rumor and scandal, much of it merrily taken up as a curiosity. But you, my Prince... son, have stirred up quite a commotion that goes beyond the normal pale of eccentricity."

Tinsereg smiled a crocodile smile. "I'm glad I was able to give them something to talk about."

The Queen's smile was equally cold. "I'm sure you are. However, there is the integrity of the Royal Bloodline to consider here, and the reputation of the House of Telcontar."

"I am positive the Throne is quite secure."

Queen Esgaler chuckled briefly. "It is not that simple. Our Family remains on the throne because our reputation is highly respected. Any action that tarnishes that reputation reflects back onto the King and undermines his authority in the face of the Court."

Tinsereg's stomach knotted up when she mentioned "our family" but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes locked onto the Queen.

"Are you implying something?" The Queen's words suggested that factions in the Court were ready and able to overthrow House Telcontar.

"Your continued irregular behavior only makes it that much more difficult for your father back here," she finished.

"I serve my father to best of my ability," Tinsereg said in a steely monotone. "Harondor has done nothing but prosper and become more stabilized under my rule."

"But at what cost?" Esgaler flared.

"My son is sleeping in the other room."

The Queen didn't seem to care. "Your reckless judgment reflects poorly onto your father. Have you no consideration for him? He rules the whole of the Western World; he can't be overly concerned with you in _Harondor_."

"Is that all you have to say?" Tinsereg knew that Amlóma's presence had something to do with why the Queen was really here, but he didn't care to hear it.

"Your brother, Prince Pelatur, understands," the Queen continued. "He too has exotic tastes, but he had enough sense to marry into the High Blood of Dol Amroth. I ask you, hasn't enough trouble been done with the dilution of the High Blood of Númenor?"

"Your point?" Tinsereg had heard all this before, and he was in no mood to hear it again.

"He doesn't let his personal preferences reflect negatively onto the King."

Everyone knew that Pelatur kept several Rhovanion and Easterling concubines in his Palace in Rómendacilbar. His marriage to Arfëa had produced only one son, while it is rumored he's had several children with other women. Arfëa had always been somewhat shy, but she never has seemed to be anything but miserable with her marriage to Pelatur.

"My brother is not a kind man. I can't see how he doesn't reflect negatively onto the King," Tinsereg responded.

"How dare you say that of your own blood!"

"Then how dare you say what you do to me and mine," he shouted back.

The Citadel Guards readied themselves, but the Queen steadied them with a short wave. They settled back into parade rest.

"Your belligerence ill serves this Family," the Queen accused. "It is time you take a proper wife." The Queen took a sheet of paper from Amlóma's hands and gave it to Tinsereg. "This decree annuls your marriage to that indigenie and disinherits the child you begot of her. You are to marry Amlóma and produce legitimate heirs though her. Since you are a member of the Blood Royal your signature is required. If you refuse, your marriage will still be annulled. Only you will be also cast out from you position, disinherited from the House of Telcontar, and banished to the island of Tolfalas where you will remain for the rest of your days."

Tinsereg quickly scanned over the document and then looked back up at the Queen, directly challenging her gaze. "And what does my father think of all this?"

"He will know soon enough." She then gestured to Amlóma. "I will now let you two get properly acquainted." The Queen gave a quick and shallow curtsey and then left the antechamber. The three Guardsmen left with her. She then closed the door behind her, but Tinsereg didn't hear any receding footfalls.

"Am I really all that bad," Amlóma asked walking up to him. "I just know we'll grow to love each other in time."

She put her arms around him, but Tinsereg refused to move or answer. Then she began to sway and hum as if in a dream. Tinsereg couldn't help but start swaying with her and the two were soon sharing a melodic, peaceful dance.

The two first met ten years ago when the Prince had brought Arientari to the Court for the King's blessing. Amlóma had only been a girl of thirteen back then, and was the darling of the Court. To Tinsereg, it seemed as if this girl's playful soul was boundless and ever pushing towards the future. She was a beautiful sight. The sweet and innocent young child quickly became attached to Tinsereg. The rest of that visit to this City was a painful memory, and he'd never returned until tonight.

"Ever since you left," she answered. "This City has been all the grayer. My father thought it best I remain here. The courtiers here are of a much higher pedigree. But wherever you stay for even a moment, you bring new _life_, my Prince. Please don't leave me again."

"I can't stay," it was the hardest thing Tinsereg had ever said. "And I can't take you with me."

"Why not," she asked, tears running down her face.

"You belong here. I belong in the South. I don't belong here."

"Yes you do," she said emphatically. "You are a member of the Blood Royal. There is always a place for you here." She paused here, as if what she had to say worried her greatly. "I could ensure it. I could be your eyes and ears here at the Court. Many a lord and courtier have people looking out for them, learning what they can and passing it onto their benefactor. I could do this for you."

"Of that I wouldn't doubt," Tinsereg said with some reservations. "But I cannot ask you to do that."

He now saw that since their last encounter she'd been veiled by despair. No longer looking towards the future but desperately clinging to a past that was gone. She was all grown now, and never again could have the longed for innocence of a child.

"Is there nothing I cannot do for you?"

Tinsereg halted their merry swaying and grabbed her around the chin with both hands. He leaned in close, their noses almost touching.

"The Court is not the whole of the world," he told her in a harsh whisper. "Never regret the choice that changes your life forever."

"Choice?"

"Yes."

Amlóma stared at him. Her eyes tried to piece together his words with what she saw on his skin and inside his body. There was truth there, she knew it, but it was hidden and out of view.

"You... do think I'm pretty, don't you," she asked with worry in her voice.

"Of course," Tinsereg answered quietly.

"Then why do you refuse to marry me?"

"Because my heart is already taken."

She seemed genuinely hurt by that remark. "What does that indigenie have that I don't? Why would you prefer her? I'm the one with pedigree! You don't believe her more beautiful than I, do you?"

Tinsereg's eyes swelled with sympathy for the young woman. She was indeed beautiful, but she could never replace Arientari in his heart. He'd already made his decision, and he chose Arientari. _How do I explain that to her_, he wondered.

Amlóma smiled. _What a gorgeous smile!_

"You tear up," she said, wiping his lower eyelid and catching the water on her finger. "How noble." She put the finger and the tear in her mouth, closed her lips around it, and then slid the digit out.

She then hugged Tinsereg with renewed vigor. "I can't wait till our wedding! I've been dreaming of it since first I saw you."

Tinsereg detected no falsehood in her, yet this was the same woman at Prince Cirimir's little afterwards party who'd laughed at the bloodied Prince on the floor. She then released Tinsereg, said: "Don't wait too long to sign," and then gingerly skipped out of the antechamber.

---

The Queen was waiting for her outside. "How did it go?"

"He truly is an amazing man, Your Grace," she gushed out. The overwhelming joy she felt at saving this wayward prince filled her body with a glorious light.

Queen Esgaler smiled her own crocodile smile. "If you say so."

"Is Your Grace really going to banish him if he doesn't comply?" Amlóma asked, suddenly a little concerned.

"No," the Queen answered. She knew he would never sign the annulment. "Elaldar would never allow it. But Tinsereg is careful, always second guessing himself. I want him to sweat -- to think about possible banishment with every decision he makes from now on. That should rein him in."

For the first time Amlóma felt that her darling Prince was in real danger. The sensation was of ice in her belly as she hurried to keep up with the Queen's long strides.

---

Tinsereg pulled his ear back from the door. He'd recognized Amlóma's and the Queen's voices but couldn't understand what they were saying. He took a deep sigh trying to mask his rage. It didn't work.

Arientari came into the antechamber wearing a white silk sleeping gown. Her eyes were full of nervous questions.

"We're leaving," Tinsereg told her. "At first light."

She nodded, questions gone.

---


	12. Chapter 11: The Bridge

"By Royal Decree of the White Throne of the Reunited Kingdom, Prince Tinsereg, for various pernicious crimes and perversions, is disinherited from the Royal House of Telcontar.

"On pain of death Tinsereg, his wife, and bastard are banished from all territories and protectorates of the Reunited Kingdom. The Lord Governorship of Harondor is granted unto General Fuinur of the XXIII Fox Legion and all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereof.

"All citizens of the Reunited Kingdom are forbidden to render any aid, direct or indirect, to Tinsereg, his wife, and bastard on pain of death.

(signed)

High King Mithrim I of the Reunited Kingdom"

---

---

All the negotiations between the High King Elagor and Prince Éohelm were tedious, boring haggling. King Éodred was, thankfully, too ill to participate. Still, his son was a tough, stone-faced negotiator. Elagor, eager for war and sick of the minutia involved in these talks, had stormed out in protest several times and it had taken all the wiles of Tinsereg and Celebras to keep him from taking his army and rampaging across Rohan to vent his frustration.

In the end, in exchange for the aid of Rohan's Riders, Meduseld got increased control over the city of Entwade, increased trade rights on the Anduin, and the annulment of a few tributes owed to Minas Anor. Most importantly, Elagor granted Rohan the right to range their horses and settle in Rómenondor. It was the same deal that allowed the Rohirrim to settle down the River Isen.

Steward Heremir didn't put up much of fight, and was largely there just to put on a show for his own Guardsmen whom everyone knew would be reporting to the Queen Mother. He defended his deal of complete independence for the Rohirrim in the East, but Prince Éohelm played his part of ignoring the Steward and then throwing him out of Rohan quite well.

Elagor stayed a week in Meduseld to participate in the customary feasts before embarking on war. After a while, the King began to grow restless. He became moody and quiet, but would explode at anyone who looked at him funny. Tinsereg had told the Meduseld palace guards to expect this and they soon learned how to handle the big man.

Crown Prince Turgor was sent back to rally the Arnorian host back in Dunland. He arrived at the head of the massive column on the sixth day. There was one final feast, and then the next morning, the war began.

---

The city of Entwade was built at a narrows of the Entwade River over a long used ford. It was now a major trading center where the routes between the upper vales of the Anduin, Rómenondor, and Gondor/Ithilien intersected. The Rohirrim of the East Mark sold their horses and wares here to travelers and tradesmen from everywhere.

Although built on Rohirrim land, practically every resident was Gondorian. They were very displeased with Elagor's deal, and many left for Minas Anor. There were several huge stables that both Rohirrim Riders and Arnorian Knights raided for spare horses and supplies. The mayor didn't complain, since he'd left for Minas Anor the day before. There were magnificent destriers, powerful garrons, muscular draft horses, stallions, thoroughbreds, mixed breeds, all in top order. It was a beautiful sight. Knights of Arnor took what they liked best, killing the stable-master when he objected. Mercenary free-riders took the rest.

This was one of the most densely populated areas of the Kingdom of Rohan, and the column picked up many camp followers here. They stayed only one night at Entwade in order to decide where they'd cross the Anduin. Although the city was ransacked, Elagor left it standing and in good repair. He considered it a token of his appreciation to the people of Rohan for their aid and generosity; and expected to be rewarded for his own generosity in the future.

---

In order to cross the Anduin High King Elagor and his councilors had two options. They could hijack the boats at Cair Andros or head further upriver to the Bridge. Sitting at the table in the Mayor's manor at Entwade was the King and his two sons, Prince Tinsereg, Prince Éohelm, and Lord Redbarad with the other Northern Dúnedain lords. It was decided to put some distance between them and the army massing around the White City and cross the Anduin at the Bridge. With the Riders guarding the southern flank and several thousand camp followers in with the baggage train the Arnorian host set out northeast to the Bridge.

North of the Falls of Rauros where the shores of the Great River were sheer, a great Bridge was constructed. As people filled out the Wold and the surrounding lands it fell on the Reunited Kingdom to defend these people. Thus a large fortress with a strong garrison was constructed on Sarn Gebir. When it became necessary for this garrison to operate on both sides of the River, a bridge was constructed to facilitate quick and easy movement.

"Great empires are nothing without great projects," declared High King Eldarion when he ordered the construction of the Bridge. He'd inherited an overflowing treasury and used it to shore up the infrastructure of the Reunited Kingdom.

If Elessar had united the West with the sword and treaty, his son Eldarion glued it together with coin. What was a bloated Empire held together by legions and promises, Eldarion built and blasted into one unified state with a central Court and bureaucracy. Elaldar then tempered the Reunited Kingdom into an efficient, interconnected, and interdependent machine.

This Bridge was one of Eldarion's most significant projects. It extended Gondor's power farther upriver than it ever had been before and strengthened the bonds between the West and the far flung cities on the Sea of Rhûn.

There were ten thousand legionnaires stationed at the Bridge, no match for the million strong Arnorian host, but this was not a fight anyone wanted. The Lord of the Bridge, Bergen, was one of the most highly respected Generals in all of the West.

He was not a very tall man, low born, but built like a bull and had risen to his current station through the ranks of the legion. He kept his head closely shaved and his beard never more than stubble. He stood at the Western gate of the Bridge in full armor, helmet under his arm, and surrounded by ten legionnaires.

Tinsereg was in awe. This General was of the kind of men whom the Reunited Kingdom was built by. This was the man who saved Lothlórian from orcs from Moria. Who'd led an expeditionary force, against orders, to Dale to stop the Easterling slavers. Who'd refused to execute Haradrim prisoners and later exchanged them for a minor Umbar lordling.

General Bergen had been all over the Reunited Kingdom and beyond during his career, now he was responsible for one of its key linchpins. The only other bridges across the Anduin were at Cair Andros and all the way down south at Osgiliath. Both of which were heavily guarded and too close to the massing armies at Minas Anor.

King Elagor and company strode up, the weight of a massive column of knights, legionaries, Riders, and peasant levies behind them. General Bergen spat off to his right before approaching.

"I am Bergen, General of the First Eagle Legion. And this is my Bridge."

"I am Elagor of House Telcontar, High King of Reunited Kingdom and Captain of the Host of Arnor and Rohan."

"When was your coronation," General Bergen asked bluntly. "I see no crown on your head."

Elagor's eyes narrowed. Tinsereg felt a sudden sick, sinking sensation in his belly. _This is not going well_.

"I am King by right," Elagor answered coldly.

General Bergen grunted, then spat. "You are nothing but a fugitive Prince with an army behind him."

"And that is a most powerful place to be."

Bergen then shouted over Elagor to all the men within earshot. "It is the Lord Ethring, Degarond, who is Lord of Arnor now by decree of the White Throne, to which you have all sworn allegiance. It is no small thing to rise in arms against the King in Minas Anor-"

Elagor started to say something but then someone shouted, "We bow to no one but the true High King!"

"All hail Elagor, High King of the West!"

"HAIL!" many thousands of voices cried out as one.

"Many of you have family and friends living in the South Kingdom," Bergen seemed undeterred. "Would you have all them put to the sword? Your cousins, uncles, brothers who live in Gondor, would you have them cut down as traitors if you win victory, merely by the accident of fate that they were born and live in the South Kingdom? What then, would your victory mean if the Halls of the King are razed to the ground and all of Gondor set ablaze? It is your homeland as much as theirs! Mark my words, the West will fall if Gondor and Arnor exchange blows!"

There were spurts of laughter from those who heard the General words. One even called for Elagor to take this challenger's head for his insolence. "If they fight against the true High King, then death by sword is what they deserve!"

General Bergen's eyes lowered. "Has all turned to vanity and petty ambition," he asked to himself.

"General," Tinsereg's voice cut through the air, grabbing everyone's attention. "Is it safe to assume that the White Tower knows we mean to enter Rómenondor?"

"Yes, that would be safe."

"Then would it also be correct to assume that your orders are to bloody us as best you can?"

"My orders are to prevent you from crossing the Bridge at all costs," Bergen answered. "Even if that means destroying the Bridge."

"Thus forcing us south to Cair Andros where Esgaler's army marches towards even now," Tinsereg guessed as his horse sauntered forward.

"True."

Now Tinsereg raised his voice so that everyone could hear. "And is it also correct to assume that you therefore have hundreds of archers on the hills to both our flanks? Archers whose arrows can pierce the thickest of dwarven-made armor?"

General Bergen picked up Tinsereg's cue. "That would be correct."

Worried murmurs went through the Arnorian ranks. Knights drew their swords and looked anxiously towards the forested hills to both sides. Pikemen were rallied along the column to prepare for a charge and Elagor's own archers readied to fire at anything that moved up on those hills.

To Tinsereg's surprise, his brother actually laughed. It was a haughty laugh that suggested he thought his sheer numbers would carry the day. The Rohirrim Riders were his ranging his flanks and could take the archers from behind. But Tinsereg knew they couldn't respond in time before serious casualties were inflicted. What Tinsereg didn't know was that the thought that made Elagor laugh was: _Dear Ilúvatar, I've marched straight into a trap. So, this lowborn General thinks he can defeat me, eh? A good charge up the embankments and those archers will disperse sure enough_.

Tinsereg turned his horse to face his brother, but still talked to General Bergen. "Were you at the centennial feast held at Minas Anor, General Bergen?"

"Yes I was in attendance."

"Did the King Elaldar, my and Elagor's father, not seem fit and hale?"

"He did."

"Not the kind of Man who would succumb to a sudden, devastating illness."

"I have not known any of the Dúnedain to fall into sickness so suddenly," Bergen answered. "Yet that doesn't mean fate didn't mean it to occur that way."

"Except in plague years," Tinsereg said, and turned to face Bergen again. "That is the only time Dúnedain have suffered from disease and fallen so suddenly."

"I wouldn't know."

Bergen's response to that question didn't matter. Tinsereg said that for his brother's ears. He had to remind him who his enemy really was. "There is no plague in Minas Anor, is there?"

"Not that I'm aware, Prince."

"Then tell me where this sudden illness my father was afflicted with came from?"

"I cannot."

"I say it came from a bottle."

"Poison?" Elagor asked.

"The Queen used a poison on you brother," Tinsereg turned to face Elagor. "Surely she would not balk at inflicting Father King with such a fate."

"Why have you said nothing of this before?"

"I have only just figured it out." It was a lie, but a necessary one to save his own head. He turned back to General Bergen. "Our dear sister is nothing more than a puppet monarch. It is Esgaler that wields the true power in Minas Anor. Doesn't it seem likely to you that she has planned this all along? Plotted to remove King Elaldar and put Aldanna on the White Throne to play at legitimacy while she deals with my brother. Then, when we are disinherited and defeated have her own son mount the White Throne—Aldanna succumbing to an unfortunate illness of her own?"

Tinsereg could literally see the heat of his brother's blood boiling.

General Bergen spat. "These matters and thoughts are those of high breed lords. I am a soldier. I don't concern myself with such things."

"You would rather serve a worthy King, would you not?"

"That is not a consideration men like me are afforded."

"If you had a choice, would you serve a King who came to the throne through birthright and conquest? Or one who stole the throne with poison and conspiracy."

"Soldiers aren't gifted choices!" Tinsereg was getting under the General's skin.

"All men have choices to make," Tinsereg countered. "We live with the consequences of them. You yourself rode out against orders once."

"I paid dearly for it." The whip scars on his back never healed well.

"You saved the lives of many people."

"They say no treason can hide from the Eyes of the White Tower," said Bergen. "They see all."

"And I say it is no real treason to refuse a false King," Tinsereg shouted his point home.

General Bergen had appeared stoic throughout, unflinching in his gaze on Tinsereg. Now the Prince noticed that he was gripping his helmet with all the strength he had. He saw now how far he'd pushed Bergen, now the old man didn't know what to think. His whole world was caught in a spinning typhoon of conflicting ideals and duties. It was time to let him up.

Tinsereg unhorsed and walked towards him. "I see it in your eyes; the same indecision that I am afflicted with. Fear not though. Answers come when we follow our hearts, though the road be dark and dreary."

This seemed to help the old man.

Elagor then saw it fit to chime in. He'd been stewing in his own whirlwind of anger slowly building up into hatred atop his horse for a while now, and he let that into his voice. "I am King by rights, now in name if not yet in fact. My father named me Crown Prince and Lord of Arnor, much like he was. The best claim they have against me is a law not exercised ever before in this Age or the last. As my brother says, it is no more than smoke and mirrors to get her own bastard whelp on the White Throne."

Tinsereg extended his hand in friendship. "Please General, there is no need for us to fight. We're here to lend relief to our brother Pelatur. You can join us, or just let us pass unmolested."

Elagor came barreling up and pulled his horse to an abrupt stop. "I believe it's my hand he should kiss, brother. Watch yourself in the future."

Tinsereg backed off. Lord Redbarad came up to him as Sereg got back up on his horse. "That was a pretty piece of theater," he commented.

"You want to cross this Bridge with all your power intact, do you not?"

"How did you figure Esgaler means to have Mithrim on the Throne," he asked.

"How did you not figure it," responded Tinsereg.

The Lord smiled and then had his horse prance back into place.

His secret knowledge of the marriage from the Citadel Guardsman Sûlamrath still ate away inside of him. Yet he couldn't let Elagor know, couldn't let on that he knows more than what he just said if he was going to keep Elagor in the East. It was an acid burden that Tinsereg was unsure how long he could bear.

"I would be honored to have you in command of my van," Elagor was saying when Tinsereg turned back to General Bergen and him.

"No," said Bergen, "I must refuse, Your Grace. Orcs are likely to hear of this combat and come down from Moria again. The people of this River are my responsibility and I can't leave them. They are defenseless without us now that Lórien is abandoned and the power of Rohan is with you in the East."

Elagor did not seem pleased.

"I will, however," Bergen continued, "keep watch on Gondor and report any movements the armies there make, Your Grace."

Elagor took a deep breath to calm himself. "I could use a good man keeping an eye on Minas Anor while I deal with the Wainriders. Fate guard thee well."

"And you as well."

Each went back to their respective camps.

"That was very generous of you, brother King," Tinsereg said.

"Quite, Sereg," Elagor barked. "I mean to be in Rómendacilbar by the end of the campaign season. I have no time to waste here."

He was just putting on a show now. Tinsereg smiled.

---

The Bridge was two stories tall and wide enough for thirty knights to ride across abreast. It was made of seamlessly fitted stones that spanned the eighty meter river canyon. The engineering that went into constructing it dumbfounded Tinsereg.

There were forecastles at each end complete with archer's nests and murder holes. The sides were built as interlocking diagonals which provided good cover for any defender fighting those trying to cross the Bridge.

The lower story housed many of the defenders. There were also good spots to drop rocks on boats floating past down on the River. Smaller forts and side walls paralleled the cliff precipice where archers could shoot arrows onto the Bridge as well.

If Elagor had tried to fight his way across it would have been a bloodbath. There are too many places for defenders to hide and the attacker is always out in the open. It was an ingenious design.

It took four days for Elagor's massive army and baggage train, two months-worth supplies and hundreds of thousands of camp followers, to cross the Bridge.

---

Three days into Rómenondor they met up with Pelatur retreating with the tatters of what remained of the Eastern Army. He was ragged and coughing. They hadn't stopped to make camp for the past week, riding day and night desperately trying to stay ahead of their pursuers. There was also a gash on his right shoulder that wasn't healing well.

He near fell off his horse from exhaustion. Arfëa and Artur were in a dilapidated wagon which followed close behind. Neither looked very healthy as well. Tinsereg sent them to the baggage train where the healers and apothecaries traveled. Elagor sent out Lord Redbarad and his knights to scout ahead and the Riders to defend his flanks. He made a strong camp with three layers of defense lines. Pelatur lay unconscious in the King's Tent for two days before waking up and telling his brothers his story.

"No matter how many we killed, no matter how many wains we destroyed more kept coming," he began. "There was no end of them." Pelatur described how the Easterlings had out-generalled him at every turn. Each time he changed his tactics to meet the enemy they seemed to have anticipated them already.

"They came at us with mounted archers and chariots after luring our cavalry away and then decimating them. They'd surround our formations and pepper us with arrows and javelins. When we held our cavalry back, they somehow outflanked it and rammed our infantry from all sides. They charged then fled, when we chased they turned in their saddles and fired behind them to devastating effect.

"We only won when we were able push our way to their wains and put them on the defensive. But those instances were few and far between. Most of the time we got cut down by archers. When our men raised their shields to defend from incoming arrows these bastards would then fire straight into our ranks."

The whole thing started when the Easterlings began pressing against the protectorate kingdoms along the Carnen River. When Pelatur sent reinforcements the enemy began pressing the great wall, Rómenram, in great earnest. After suffering heavy losses they were able to pull one gate down and cross into Gondorian land. They then flooded the land, pinning Pelatur in Rómendacilbar as they burned and pillaged the garrison towns and villages like a ravenous scythe.

There were companies of orcs intermixed within their forces as well. Many had escaped into the East three hundred years ago as well as hidden in their holds within the mountains. They were enfeebled with the Fall of Sauron, but easily pliable to any strong personality. Easterlings and Southrons were notorious for using surviving orcs as shock troops in front of their main armies.

"We were able to trick a couple hundred Wainriders into the Dead Marches," Pelatur said with his trademark devious smile, "but that's only a fraction of their power. These people are lead by an intelligent General." With that, their brother passed out. Elagor and his Council were left to ponder their strategy.

---

Easterlings tried to ambush the camp that night, but the outriders got word back to camp and the raiders were decimated.

Elagor then set out find the largest Wain that was nearby. He was eager to match the horsemanship of his Arnorian knights and mounted lancers against theirs. With Éohelm on his right flank he charged the Wain.

The enemy wagons circled, defended by their horsemen and axe-wielding foot warriors. Wainriders migrate in family units. The men fought on horse, chariot, or foot to defend their families. This provided them the motivation to be some of the most fell and terrible warriors in Middle-earth. The insuing battle was fierce and costly. Too costly. Elagor lost many of his own men to the mounted archers. He burnt the Wains and ordered no prisoners to be taken in retribution. Elagor returned to his camp deep in a quiet, jaw-clenching rage.

"We need to come up with an effective strategy if we are to prevail and still have enough men to fight at Minas Anor," Tinsereg pointed out, but Elagor was in no mood to listen to him.

---


	13. Chapter 12: Conclave

"The usurper army has marched East and out of the Kingdom of Rohan. They have crossed the Bridge north of Falls of Rauros and have invaded the Gondorian province of Rómenondor. General Bergen, Lord of the Bridge, has been recalled to Minas Anor to face charges of dereliction of duty and high treason.

"The Eyes of the White Tower have seen that the Kingdom of Rohan has betrayed Minas Anor and allied itself with Elagor, the Usurper. For this insufferable treachery the Reunited Kingdom's obligations under the Oath of Eorl are now null and void by royal decree of the White Throne. All Lords of Gondor and legionary generals of the Western fiefs, whom up to now have refused to send aid to Minas Anor for fear of attack by the Usurper, are to make preparations to cross the White Mountains and invest the outlaw Kingdom of Rohan.

(signed)

High King Mithrim I, of the Reunited Kingdom"

---

---

Deep within the dark places beneath Minas Anor there was a room that didn't exist. The White Tower and gaudy King's House were just the surface of the State. The foundations of the buildings burrowed deep within the rock. There were storerooms, libraries of official documents, dungeons, torture chambers, catacombs, and other various facilities that served the White Throne. All were connected by a vast network of sconce-light tunnels with secret openings at all nine levels of the City.

Lord Commander Thorongil of the Citadel Guard walked through the catacombs of deceased Citadel Guardsmen on his way to nowhere. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to glance at the wall of mail and sircoat dressed bones of the glorious dead, their names inscribed above them. Those who'd fallen in far away lands had their names inscribed over empty shelves.

He came to a masoned wall etched with the symbol of their Order: A white tree with an upturned sword emblazoned on the bark. The tree was of white pearl, the sword black onyx. Lord Commander Thorongil pushed the onyx sword. It went back about the length of his first knuckle before a loud knocking click sounded. The five ton rock slab opened up with the magic of counterweight and Thorongil stepped out of the world.

Inside there was a circular table with chairs around it that also didn't exist. This place was a sanctuary, a room where Citadel Guards could speak amongst themselves free of all vows and obligations. No spy for the White Tower or any of the other noble Houses had ever even heard a whisper of this room. Nobody but the Citadel Guards knew it existed, and nobody talked.

All the Captains of the Guard here at Minas Anor were already there. They stood as their Lord Commander entered the room. Thorongil turned and pulled the lever to lower the door slab back into place, sealing them outside of Middle-earth.

"Who guards the High King," he traditionally asked as he walked to his own chair.

"Captain Anárion and his men, Lord Commander," Captain Turgon answered.

Lord Commander Thorongil grunted and nodded his approval. Captain Anárion would never have agreed to meet under these circumstances. He was mindlessly loyal to the White Throne... and one of Queen Mother Esgaler's spies in the Order. He would have betrayed this sacred place to the White Throne, something absolutely forbidden. What they had come here to discuss, in the old days, and even now, was high treason.

The ascension of High King Elessar not only revitalized the Kingdom of Gondor, but it gave renewed purpose to the Citadel Guards. Not only his actions but also his words inspired all who heard him. The least of which were the Captains of the Citadel Guards of the time. They committed his sayings and pronouncements to memory and later compiled them into a small book that all Guardsmen were required to read.

Elessar's judgment of Beregond in the first days of his reign was taken as a new gospel on the Guard's code of loyalty. The Royal Family was to be obeyed in all things at all times, but the Guard was to now take its own council. It was ruled at the first of these Conclaves that the decision of Beregond to defy the Steward Denethor was a just one made in a severe occasion.

This was one of those severe occasions.

Never before had the Citadel Guard met to discuss open defiance of the Royal Family. It was treason—heresy—to do so. But several of the Captains had noticeably grown uneasy over the past few months. That's why this Conclave was called.

Only those trusted to give their frank opinion were selected. Any of the others might have betrayed them to the Queen Mother and were thus skillfully kept unaware.

Lord Commander Thorongil sat in his chair, and the other Captains followed.

In front of him were the Holy Books -- the Ainulindalë, Valaquenta, Quenta Silmarillion, and Akallabêth -- all bound together in one Tomb. Thorongil studied the Holy Tomb for a while, analyzing all the imperfections of the leather covers and the rust stains on the bosses and bronze locks. Finally, he said: "The matter of which we must discuss here, today, is of the most dire. Never before have we been in such a need for a Conclave, and risked so much in calling one. You all know what we mean to bring before the Round Table. These times remind me of the final days immortalized in the Akallabêth, when our race fell below redemption and were banished to this dark, but sacred, Land."

There were nods of agreement amongst the Captains. A few held themselves in perfect control, and betrayed nothing of their inner thoughts. Lord Commander Thorongil continued, "Our Lords have betrayed the Ainur once again. Instead of the lands being rent asunder, they have raised Elagor to make war. Who knows what they mean for the future of our Land."

"It may be that when the Usurper arrives and burns the Land, it too will fall into the Sea," remarked Captain Siriondil.

"Or he is a demon set against us to test our faith," Captain Tarciryan proposed.

"Go on, Captain," the Lord Commander prodded Captain Tarciryan.

"Our sole responsibility is to protect the Royal Family from all _foreign_ enemies, Lord Commander," the Captain explained. "It is no proper concern of ours how they behave amongst themselves."

"Thank you for reminding us of our sacred duty, Captain Tarciryan," the Lord Commander said. "However, I believe this situation is unprecedented and requires unprecedented action. The marriage between the Prince Mithrim and the Princess Aldanna is unholy, and consummated in a most savage fashion. Captain Tarannon, you were present during the act as a formal witness."

"We are not the arbiters of morality in the Reunited Kingdom," Captain Valacar said.

"That may be true," answered Siriondil. "But what right do we have to interfere in the affairs of the Royal Family. Wouldn't we be risking the ire of Ilúvatar if we break our vows and make an evil situation worse?"

"We could choose sides," ventured Lord Commander Thorongil. "It is stretching the limits of our vows, but it wouldn't be impossible."

"Our oath is to the High King," shouted Tarciryan. "We all vowed to defend High King Mithrim and the City to our deaths! There is no flexibility."

Lord Commander Thorongil knew Captain Tarciryan felt trapped within his vow. They all did, and all of them reacted in different ways. Tarciryan's was a flight towards orthodoxy. Thorongil couldn't blame him for it. He knew many of his Captains and Guardsmen felt the same tension. At least Tarciryan knew to keep the conversations of the Conclave private.

"To whom is our higher responsibility," asked Captain Calimehtar, who'd been silently studying his peers. "Are we to defend the High King, Minas Anor, _Ilúvatar_? If we stubbornly defend the High King and Minas Anor is burnt to the ground, are we justified? If the actions of the High King violate the eternal laws of the Valar, are we as Faithful committing sin to protect him?"

"What is more important are the vows we took as Men," said Siriondil. "That is what the Valar honor."

"Cities can be rebuilt," Captain Tarannon said. "The lives of the Royal Family cannot be replaced."

"High King Elessar freed us from the burden of forced service to an evil King," chimed in Captain Minardil. "His directives on the subject are quite clear."

That seemed to make many of the Captains pause and think. The Lord Commander smiled inside. These kinds of discussions were the reason this room was hidden.

"General Bergen, as fine an officer as I ever knew—pardon Lord Commander—his head now adorns Traitor's Row atop the battlements, tarred and mangled almost beyond recognition." Captain Valacar said somberly. They all felt the sting of that loss. For his refusal to offer up resistance at the Bridge General Bergen's illustrious career was ended with an executioner's blade. There wasn't really even a trial. A long list of his offenses, most of them obviously false, were read out loud to the mob before his head was struck off and displayed to the cheering crowd. "That is the action of a tyrant."

General Bergen had been the commander of many fine men who earned the right to wear the sword emblazoned Tree, and he had returned to congratulate many of his former men on their Induction.

It was a bad move all around. While it gave the people—and any reluctant Lord—a show as to how traitors are dealt with, the execution alienated many legionary officers and Citadel Guardsmen. All the Captains made the sign of the Valar across their foreheads to bless the dead General. They sat in silence to honor the man.

"Regardless," began Captain Herion after a while. "It is not for us to decide who is best to sit the White Throne, be it Mithrim or Elagor."

"Elagor has been disinherited," Tarannon pointed out. "He has no legitimate claim to the White Throne."

"That was a baseless order whose very intention was meant to provoke the Lord of Arnor to war," challenged Minardil. "I was there when it was signed."

"And I suppose the disinheritance of the former Prince Tinsereg was ill justified as well," Captain Calimehtar prodded Minardil.

"I was there when the marriage was consummated in most savage and brutal fashion," continued Tarannon. "Many of Guardsmen there have had their faiths shattered because of it, and have no place to turn for solace since the Supreme Cleric officiated the marriage ceremony. Yet still, it is not our place to determine who is worthy and who is not to sit the White Throne. It is heresy to think we are and blasphemy to speak it."

"Captains," Lord Commander Thorongil interrupted. "This is not the time nor the place for rash words. These are serious matters that we must form a consensus on or risk a civil war within our own ranks. I will _not_ allow that to occur."

There were many more remarks, arguments, and counter arguments made. However, the hour was growing late and several Captains began to fear that their absence would soon be noted. Thorongil held aloft his hand and asked all those in favor of remaining loyal to Mithrim to raise theirs. He then asked who favored siding with Elagor. They were an even split: ten to ten.

"Clearly a consensus cannot be reached now," Thorongil stated. "I suggest we continue with our normal duties and await the time of decision at another Conclave. Any opposed?" There were no objections. It would be the status quo for now: faithful service.

"May Ilúvatar have mercy upon you," Lord Commander Thorongil prayed.

"And upon you as well," all the Captains returned.

The Conclave was now adjourned.

---


	14. Chapter 13: The War in the East

"Lord Egarond:

"Your refusal to remove your power to the defense of Minas Anor is very troubling. The renegade Elagor has taken his rebel army into Rómenondor along with his Rohirrim allies. There is no threat to your lands in Anfalas. Instead, your levies are to cross into Rohirrim territory and take tribute from the villages in Adorn. You will comply immediately or face a warrant of treason and execution.

(signed)

High King Mithrim I of the Reunited Kingdom"

---

---

The plan was to have Prince Éohelm lead many of his Riders to the south and Tinsereg to patrol the northern flanks with the Arnorian cavalry. The plan was to corral the Easterlings and Wainriders into an ever smaller front, concentrating them into one bloated host that the infantry could then destroy. The plan was for Elagor to make a predictable and slow going, staying at each roadside holdfast for a night to allow Tinsereg and Éohelm to coordinate their maneuvers and keep the enemy in front of the main host. The plan was to have Crown Prince Turgor accompany Tinsereg in order to get valuable cavalry experience—something he lacked and was emphatic that he get. Tinsereg believed that, somehow, the plan was also to have the Crown Prince look over his shoulder. _I'm probably getting paranoid_, Tinsereg thought.

Things didn't go as planned.

"You think they're enemies," asked Turgor.

"Mayhaps," answered Tinsereg. "Though they don't have the look of it."

There was a caravan moving slowly as if a mournful lethargy held them in an unforgiving grip. Their wains were of the same manner as the Easterlings but the armor of their warriors was completely different.

"Ambush," ventured Herumor.

Tinsereg didn't have an answer. They could be disguising themselves; there were enough of them to be a hostile army. He counted three hundred horsemen and at least two legions of footmen. Yet their weapons weren't Easterling, but looked more akin to their own Gondorian style. _Ambush_, Tinsereg repeated in his mind.

"I say we charge," said Turgor. "Their reaction will determine if they're our enemies or not."

"That's an excellent idea, nephew. How many knights shall we use? Enough to guarantee victory? But then, most to all bands will retreat in face of such power, friend or foe."

"They have the look of Rhovanion peoples," observed Herumor.

Crown Prince Turgor was growing tired of his uncle's snide comments. "If they are free of sin," said Turgor. "Then we needn't worry over their fate. Ilúvatar will look mercifully upon them in the afterworld."

Tinsereg gave his nephew a long hard look. "Now that's a charming thought."

"What shall we do then, my Prince," asked Herumor.

"We'll approach them en masse at an oblique angle," decided Tinsereg. "But slowly and in peace. Have the reserves form up to surround them." He looked square at Turgor. "There will be no unnecessary bloodshed; their fates in the afterworld notwithstanding."

As the Arnorian cavalry sauntered forward, an emissary from the caravan approached.

"I am King Ainuvilial of Theaulflan," the heavyset bearded man said.

"I am Tinsereg, Prince, Elaldarsson of the Reunited Kingdom."

"Well met to be sure," the vagabond king said. "I lead what remains of my people. We are refugees, and must beg your succor."

Tinsereg held out his hand with a friendly smile. King Ainuvilial seemed overjoyed as he accepted it.

"Easterlings and Wainriders pressed the borders of our kingdom," began the King at night around the campfire. "Ours is a small territory in a fertile valley of the Carnen flood. My daughter I sent to Rómendacilbar for safe keeping in these troubled times, as we are a friend of your noble brother. For long we held out the Easterling invaders, and kept the northern frontier of Rómenondor secure."

"How, noble King," asked Herumor. The others listened with rapt attention.

"Adaptation. The enemy tries to outflank our right, I outflank his left. He attacks with bows, I engage from within trees. He attacks with horse, I fight with spears. He attacks with fire, I take his kindling. By the end of that, the enemy is arrowless, horseless, spiritless, and witless."

There were laughs around the fire.

"But..." the old man continued in a voice that now seemed from afar. "A traitor's heart in one of our own blood did undo me and all my labors. My sister's son—how can one of such strong mind and body be of such crooked and inconstant heart! I know not. And so my kingdom fell, my forces split in half—the greater part to my nephew—and I cast out; or rather fled like a coward in vain hope of renewed resistance one day.

"News of Rómendacilbar's fall did but add to my sorrow. A kingdom and a daughter lost. Yet I would trade ten times my kingdom's worth, TEN KINGDOMS, if but to see my daughter unharmed. For what is land and title, if true value lay not in family and blood?"

Everyone was silent. For a long time they allowed the memory of King Ainuvilial's sad words to sink into their minds.

Suddenly, out of the fire crackled night: "I call for volunteers." It was Prince Tinsereg. "To swear a holy oath... that they shall not rest, nor take up any other burden than in direct course to find and secure in health the King's daughter... and to liberate his kingdom, and all who dwell therein now in tyranny breath free air once more. If the daughter be not of the living, then I task you return her bones to her native soil, to thereafter forever dwell, hopefully, with malice towards none. I call for volunteers."

All paused and looked at one another, waiting for the first man to call out his name. None dared speak, for their current mission was to a higher King and thus a higher calling.

"Sûlamrath!" Tinsereg shouted. "You shall go. I charge you with this task; and only in its completion shall you find your salvation."

The disgraced Citadel Guard bowed low and thanked the Black Prince with the utmost of his heart.

In the end, four Arnorian knights of little consequence and two mounted lancers swore to uptake the venture with Sûlamrath. Tinsereg sent them on their way with King Ainuvilial's small caravan in the morning.

---

Elagor stood at the head of his legions. He wanted a decisive battle and, being King, that's what he got. He had to hand it to his brother Sereg, a kingly gift on his birthday. _I only wish these were the legions of Gondor before me now_, he thought. _I could then be winning my crown_.

Éohelm and his brother had done remarkably well, the Easterling host was massive. On the hill his army occupied Elagor saw six hundred wains in three large circles. Ax-men on foot held the center line of the front. Their massive ranks of mounted archers stood confidently at the wings, they had destroyed nearly every Gondorian army sent against them.

Tinsereg sat ahorsed in the rear. He had for the past three weeks ranged to the north with a powerful force of Arnorian chivalry and mounted lancers. By avoiding direct confrontation with the Wainriders and attacking their scouts with overwhelming force he forced the northern flanks of the invaders closer to the center where Elagor marched. Sometimes all that was needed was to display a preponderance of power in order to chase the smaller wains into larger groups. Tinsereg then outmaneuvered and raided their rearguards brilliantly, always outflanking to the north and thus moving them further south.

Prince Éohelm had had similar success in the south. Except that he had avoided the larger wains to concentrate on the smaller bands, destroying them and scattering the survivors. Naturally the clumped into larger groups that he consistently harassed until they linked with their central front that Elagor was relentlessly pushing farther and farther east.

Elagor altered his infantry tactics to take advantage of the longer range yew longbows carried by his Arnorian archers. Three lines of legionnaires in front of six rows of peasant archers marched down the hill.

Easterling mounted archers began their charge. They spread out in a horns-of-the-bull formation, a flowing blot of horse and humanity, to surround the advancing troops. The ax-men began marching forward as well, shouting brutal chants in their guttural tongue. Their front line of skirmishers consisted mainly of orcs.

Tinsereg ordered the Arnorian chivalry and mounted lancers to their forward holding positions. There they kept the infantry from being outflanked.

Lord Redbarad, in charge of the van, ordered the archers to fire against the Wainriders. Under a barrage or arrows the horsemen retreated. When the ax-men got in range the legionnaires and archers stopped. Redbarad then had the archers let loose on the ax-men. The Easterlings then broke out into a sprint to close the gap between the armies as quick as possible, screeching all the way.

Elagor ordered the legionnaires forward, knowing that peasant levies and another legion will filter in behind him. Two more legions moved at diagonals from the main army to keep the Wainriders at bay. The omnipresent threat of a pincer cavalry charge kept the flanks secure.

"Javelins," Elagor shouted.

The rear ranks passed the javelins to the front and prepared to throw their own. At twenty paces the legionnaires threw their javelins towards the enemy. The points pierced their shields and flesh. Then came another wave of javelins with the same effect.

"Swords!"

The tooth unnerving metal sigh of unsheathing short swords sang through the air.

"Archers! Fire at will!" Lord Redbarad drew his sword as well. He ordered more reinforcements behind Elagor. It was his job to watch the Wainriders and use his archers to keep them out of range.

Seeds from the last crop of wildflowers lilted through the air like snow.

The two armies met in a titanic crash. The Easterlings smashed their axes into the legionnaires' shields before putting their shoulders to the Arnorian line. The men of Arnor held true and slid their swords like liquid fire into the hearts and vitals of the enemy.

Bodies pressed against the shield wall and the pushing game began. The undisciplined ranks of Easterlings hacked and grabbed and shoved their way, trying to break the Arnorian line.

The line held.

Clods of dirt, grime, blood, and sweat flew through the air. The screams of dying and mutilated men overpowered centurion orders and soldier curses. Elagor blocked a hard swung ax with his shield, went to one knee and sliced his attacker's knee open. The Easterlings were backpedaling.

Elagor looked down to see the Easterling he'd just cut screaming in pain. He stomped on his mouth, breaking all his teeth. The Easterling's screams were choked in his own blood, and Elagor then drove his heel into the man's nose before stepping over him.

The Wainriders were feinting left and right, charging in till they were within bowshot and getting a few arrows off before retreating beyond the Arnorian archers. Then all of a sudden they drew their scimitars and charged headlong at the flanks of the Arnorian line. Arrows, swords, and javelins didn't keep them back and they broke through the first line on the Arnorian flanks.

The peasant levies shoved pikes in their faces, groins, and horses but were largely ineffective. The Wainriders then turned towards the center as if oblivious to the threat to their sides. Although the legions on the flanks were penetrated, they were not broken. Many Wainriders and their horses fell to Arnorian swords.

Tinsereg shifted uneasily in his saddle, watching the battle progress. Lord Redbarad tried to reinforce the center with more legions and ordered the archers to retreat to the safety of the rear. It was no good. Elagor was now assailed from three sides. The center was being squeezed to death and the second line was quickly becoming the primary front. Without the cover of the archers the full force of the Easterlings and Wainriders descended onto the Arnorian army.

"Pel," Tinsereg shouted. "Take the cavalry down onto the flanks of the enemy. I'll get the Rohirrim to assail the rear."

"No," Pelatur said. "The Rohirrim are not needed here."

"We need to destroy this army as quickly as possible," Tinsereg argued.

"The Rohirrim are to be held back until the uttermost end of need," responded Pelatur.

"The need is now!"

"Stand fast, brother. The second legion will soon merge with High King Elagor. You will not steal any glory for this fight from our brother King."

_What the hell is he talking about_, wondered Tinsereg. Something didn't sit right, and his brother's mischievous smile was disconcerting in the extreme.

"This is by the King's own command," Pelatur continued. "The infantry under our brother will prevail here, much like it will at the gates of Minas Anor. Not the cavalry or the Rohirrim will be engaged until the battle is already effectively won. You will not defy the true High King of the West, will you?"

Sereg glanced behind Pelatur towards Crown Prince Turgor and Prince Barahir, Elagor's sons. _This is not going to happen_, Tinsereg thought. _Elagor is not going to die today. Fie upon his command._

"You," he pointed at Turgor. "Follow me."

Turgor was taken aback by the intensity of his uncle's stare. It took him a minute to do anything. Finally, in happy defiance of Pelatur's unspoken objection, Turgor rode off behind Tinsereg and his ten Citadel Guardsmen accompanied by a hundred Guardsmen of his own.

Pelatur grimaced. _I'm the one that should be making the decisions here while Elagor is up at the front_, he thought. _I'm the elder brother. Little fool will ruin everything._ He turned to his aide-de-camp and said, "Spread the news throughout the cavalry. When the Rohirrim come over the hill, sound the charge." _Sereg will have to be dealt with._

Tinsereg rode up the Prince Éohelm. "Riders of Rohan! The hour is dire and your strength is needed! The time is now! Go forth yonder quickly there, and show the enemy your metal!" He stopped his horse in front of Éohelm, Turgor at his side.

"My scouts have kept me informed as to the progress of the battle," Prince Éohelm said watching the Citadel Guardsmen form a line in front of his Riders as if to lead the charge. Acrimony mixed with amusement at the gall of these Citadel Guardsmen. "What do you say Eorlingas," he called out to his men. "Shall we show these Arnorians how to do a real cavalry charge?"

"Charge!" all the Riders cried out as one.

Prince Éohelm then turned his gaze back to Tinsereg as he changed the grip on his spear. "Lead the way Black Prince of Harondor, if you able. If not, just try to keep up. I promise not to stomp right over you."

Tinsereg just smiled. His horse snorted defiantly as he turned to face the enemy, drawing Hinruin from its scabbard.

---

Elagor took a blow from an Easterling ax that near split his shield in half. He lunged towards the enemy, grabbing his ax before it could be swung again and shoved his short sword into the Easterling's neck.

The line had disintegrated into a chaotic melee. He stepped over bodies of fallen Easterlings and legionnaires. The pits in the beat up ground were filled with small pools of blood and offered many places for a twisted or broken ankle by one unwary step.

White seeds still fluttered through the battle soaked air. The hacking and slashing game had begun.

His short sword was no longer viable. He sheathed it and pulled out Nár. The blade shone with a blue glare like hot fire as he swung it through the air. He shouted orders with his thunderous voice, like a mariner in a storm, to the surrounding legionnaires. Many of them had formed into clusters of three, back to back to back, in order to defend themselves from all sides.

Elagor cut down two Easterlings with one stroke. Another tried to attack him from behind. He chopped the ax in half and then severed the Easterling's head from his body. A Wainrider arrow bounced off his pauldron. Elagor turned just in time to catch the horseman charging in. He cut a huge gash in the rider's leg in the motion to block the scimitar. The wainrider fell from his horse a few seconds later.

Inside his head, Elagor heard trumpets sounding. He turned to face the music. His Arnorian knights came charging in; Pelatur's coolly green hued Calanarien leading the way. With lances held firm in their hands, they smashed into the flank of the enemy. Skewered Wainriders screeched and withered.

Wavering white horses on green fields came over the hill to the north. The Rohirrim Riders flooded onto the battlefield. There were Citadel Guard standards intermixed as well. At the head of the charge rode his brother Tinsereg, the hungry red glow of Hinruin raised above his head.

"What the hell is he doing here," Elagor shouted to no-one and everyone. _Pelatur warned me Tinsereg would disobey my orders. Damn you, Sereg! Now I owe Pel five hundred gold. _

Tinsereg's horse remained in front. The Crown Princes of the Reunited Kingdom and Rohan fast behind. Like a bolt from a scorpion he plunged into the ranks of Easterlings and Wainriders. Spears followed, and then the Riders themselves. The Wainriders were no match for the fury and horsemanship of the Rohirrim.

Tinsereg found his brother on the battlefield. He dismounted and came up to his brother. Elagor did not seem happy to see him. "A king should have a horse," Tinsereg said. Elagor smiled at that and mounted the horse.

"We'll need to have a discussion as to what your role in this affair actually is," Elagor said to his brother. He then looked around and saw that the enemy was in full retreat.

"To the wains!" he shouted, waving the blue tinged fury of Nár above his head. "To the wains my brethren! To the wains! Victory is nigh! To the wains!"

---


	15. Chapter 14: Court

"My Dear and Most Reverend Sovereign:

"You claim that the cost of such a venture into Kingdom of Rohan will be more than compensated by the spoils to be won there. To this I must beg the question: What spoils does the Rohirrim possess that are of any worth? Even their chieftains live in little more thatched cottages. Of absolute and most excellent horses they do have in number, yet also so have I already in my stables and can gain more without wasting effort and expenditure. If there were more such horses in my lands I fear the value of them to potential buyers would fall below acceptable levels. For, even the most vile boy has a prince's horse in Rohan.

"Therefore I, and my neighbor lords, having taken council with the legion and Court customs officials in the area have decided to forego the Rohan venture in order to better look after our own property. Rumor has reached us of a revitalized Southron fleet, that your Majesty seems unable to contain, that could pose a threat to those of us on the lesser defended western rivers of Gondor.

(signed)

Egarond XIX, Lord of Anfalas"

---

---

Steward Heremir walked up the steps to the glimmering White Tower of Ecthelion. High above him the black flag with the Royal Sigil flapped in the breeze. Citadel Guards lined the way and barred the path to the doors. Try as he might, he could not remember when this many Guards were required to keep the Royal Family safe.

Dark storm clouds were gathering in the air. Heremir heard the distant rumble of thunder. The sound echoed off the mountain and a damp wind began to pick up even at this altitude. It would be a stormy night; he could already smell the rain. That and the vapors from the sewers of the City were wafting up, carried by the thickening air. Those that could were quickly concluding any outstanding business they had and then rush back to their homes.

A table was set up just in front of the throne dais. Court was in session. Sitting at the table were all the High Lords of Gondor that could attend. Prince Ciryaher, uncle to the current King, Lord Túrin XXXIV of Dol Amroth, and Lord Ostoher XXVIII of Pelargir sat along the left. Lord Degarond XXIX of Ethring, now the Lord of Arnor, sat at the head of the right hand side. Lord Artaron XXXI of Edhellond, Lord Governor of Rómenondor, and General Fuinur, Lord Governor of Harondor, filled out the rest of the table. Lord Commander of the Citadel Guards Thorongil stood to the side.

"Are you still the Lord of Erech, Queen Mother," asked Prince Ciryaher idly.

"Of course," Esgaler answered. "Since my father and brother passed. Ah, good Steward Heremir. Please join us."

"I thought High King Mithrim would be joining us today," Heremir said as he sat down.

The Queen Mother smiled. "He is currently indisposed at the moment."

"Didn't want to bother him with a mire Court meeting apparently," Lord Túrin sounded slightly insulted.

"Why, my Lord Dol Amroth," the Queen Mother said. "You do your King injustice. Everyone knows how much my son cares about his Lords and people and if matters arise that requires his personal attention at the expense of such Court sessions then he will do as he must for the security of us all."

"Matters then," Lord Ostoher said. "That will arise at this meeting I hope."

The Queen Mother smiled again. "But of course."

"Then why isn't the High King here!" flared Lord Túrin.

"Lord Túrin!" Esgaler returned. "Have peace! The High King will perform his duties as he sees best fit. I will remind you that you yourself, Lord Dol Amroth, _refused_ to attend Court for many years."

"I did so because I will not abide any Arnorian making decisions for my land," said Lord Túrin.

"And as you can see, none are present. Now to the matters of the day," the Queen Mother got down to business. "Many of the Western Lords have refused to march their feudal levies to either Minas Anor, or invest the outlaw Kingdom of Rohan. Order must be restored to our western fiefs as soon as possible. I mean to have those armies march eastward across Calenardhon, through Anórien, and then here to this City. The peasants must be marshaled very quickly, if they are to make the expedition in time to meet the Usurper Elagor."

"I suggest we send a few legions westward," Lord Artaron put forth. "They can either compel the lords to acquiesce to His Majesty's awe or draft the peasants regardless."

"Your Grace," Lord Ostoher said. "There are many knights in the western fiefs that would resist bitterly. We'd be fighting a civil war before the Usurper even arrives."

Steward Heremir then spoke up. "What is needed is an emissary. Someone respected who can convince those Lords to favor our policy. Bloodshed should be kept at a minimum while our lands are at peace."

"We are not a tyrant," said the Queen Mother half in jest. "Undo bloodshed is not on our minds."

_She uses the Royal "we" to refer to herself_, Steward Heremir noted. That was a tradition reserved only for the King.

"So the policy of the White Throne should be to negotiate with our own vassals," said Prince Ciryaher indignantly.

"Convincing should not be required," Esgaler said. "They ought to bend to our awe or be smashed all to pieces."

"How it ought to be, yes," said Heremir diplomatically. "But not how it _is_."

"How better it would be to remind those lords that the White Throne is absolute when their armies are under our command," said General Fuinur.

"What are you saying General," asked Lord Túrin.

"Negotiate with these problem-some Lords now. Get their armies out of their lands and then, after the Usurper is defeated, exact some retribution for their initial noncompliance—always proclaiming loudly the reason for this punishment."

Prince Ciryaher laughed and had another glass of wine poured for him.

After thinking about it for a second, Esgaler replied, "We are likened to your suggestion, General Fuinur. Steward Heremir, be such an emissary for us. Your respect amongst the nobility of Gondor is beyond question."

A loud crack of thunder blasted through the air.

A deep, dark rumbling went through Heremir's heart. His sovereign was asking him to use the credit he'd built up over his whole tenure to lead these lords like sheep to wolves. It disgusted him. High King Elaldar himself once said, "The greatest monarchies are the compliant ones; ones that co-opt their vassals rather than rule them. We rule by assent and loyalty, rather than by decree." It was a difficult policy, but the correct one. This was an unconscionable act, but all he could say was, "I accept Your Grace's charge."

Queen Mother Esgaler nodded her approval.

"Let us hope these negotiations go better than yours with the Rohirrim," Ciryaher laughed. "But then, they are rather brutish."

"However," Heremir continued, ignoring the swooning Prince. "I do not believe myself qualified to lead a military expedition. I am a servant of this Court, not a military leader."

"I will accompany him," General Fuinur volunteered. "And lead our armies into Rohan, if Your Grace will have me." This was, after all, an excellent chance to advance his career.

"I will have ships from my arsenal deploy to those rivers in order to remove the excuse of attack from a Southron fleet," ventured Lord Ostoher.

"Very well," Esgaler affirmed. "Gentle Steward, I will have you return at once to Minas Anor when your task is complete."

Steward Heremir nodded affirmatively. Never before had he seen such a cowed Court. They all were virtually leaping over towers to keep Her Grace's favor.

"While we are on the topic of ships and wars," said Prince Ciryaher. "How goes the fight with the Haradrim at Umbar."

"The High King's personal fief is secure, the Southron raiders destroyed," answered the general. "However, we did not have sufficient resources to pursue them into the Haradwaith."

"Do you have legions to spare then now," asked the Queen Mother.

"A few I could, as long as they need not travel far. Haradrim still make raids."

"Then have them march north and take Hyarmentur from that Black Woman of Harondor," ordered Esgaler. "I won't have a safe harbor in my lands for Gondor's enemies."

"Yes, my Queen Mother," said General Fuinur. "And with the aid of the White Throne, I mean to make my claim on Harondor as soon as the Usurper is defeated."

"That would please the Winged Crown," Esgaler said. "Now we move onto the Arnorian lords we have in our dungeons. I will take suggestions towards this matter."

When Elagor was marshaling his rebel army there were several Arnorian lords present at Minas Anor participating in Courtly maneuverings, being generally engaged like parasites on the affairs of the Empire, and searching for suitable matches for their numerous daughters. Some, like the Lord Redbarad of Hollin and his family, were shrewd enough to escape before the Gates were barred against them. A few others managed to bribe door guards, but they were largely captured in Anórien.

"I say the White Throne has no further use of them," said Lord Degarond, the nominal Lord of Arnor. "They are loyal only to my predecessor, and await his return."

"I would disagree," said Steward Heremir. "After this business with the Usurper is concluded, they will beg for succor."

"Your point," asked Esgaler. She was obviously in favor of taking their heads.

"They are traitors," said Prince Ciryaher. "In their hearts if not in their deeds."

"If your imperial son were to grant them mercy, he would have a large hold over them," explained the Steward. "With Lord Degarond in Annúminas, the threat of imperial retribution would not be far gone. They will make the reclaiming of Arnor all the much quicker when the Lord Ethring moves his armies north."

"I agree with the Prince of Ithilien," said Lord Ostoher. "When mercy and cruelty play for a kingdom, it is the gentler gamer which is often the quicker winner." A grateful Steward nodded in thanks.

Queen Mother Esgaler looked between the Steward and the Lord of Pelargir. There was some kind of relationship between the two men that will have to be ferreted out and either broken or turned to the purposes of the White Throne alone. She would need time to gather enough information to do this. _Best let such a thing ripen, so that when picked it is sweetest_. "Then it is agreed by the White Throne," she said. "That will be our policy."

_So I was right after all_, thought Steward Heremir. _It is her voice that is the true one of the White Throne these days._

"What news of the Usurper's army out East," asked Lord Túrin to Steward Heremir.

"My Rangers have been tailing them since they entered Rómenondor," reported Heremir. "They have just won a large battle and are marching eastward at a moderate pace. They are taking casualties but the army is in strength, well feed, well shod, and in good spirits, desertions are low."

"That is disappointing," said the Queen Mother. "I expect you will have better news when your Rangers report next."

Heremir nodded silently. What did this Queen Mother expect? News is news, be it bad or good. The High Lords of Gondor were always distrustful of his Rangers. They were the practitioners of the base art of guerrilla warfare. This meant to these Lords that they were devoid of honor, nobility, and courage.

"If I may venture a little further," Steward Heremir put forth. "As I am Prince of Ithilien, I beg leave to proper defend my lands."

"Isn't that the same argument used by the Western lords," responded Prince Ciryaher.

"My Prince," Steward Heremir started. "My lands are just across the Anduin. The Usurper cannot threaten this City without first crossing them."

"Yet we know not which direction the Usurper with come from," said Lord Artaron. "It is best to concentrate our forces rather than spread them out to be threatened piecemeal."

"An outer line of defense would be preferable, Your Grace," said Steward Heremir. "I have strong forts in Northern Ithilien so as to block the Usurper's path if he comes back west through Rómenondor and if we also send troops to defend Poros and Pelargir we can bar him entry from the south if he goes 'round Mordor."

"He will not come from the south," said Lord Túrin. "If he does, then he will have to fight through Khand before he gets to us. He'll wish to engage His Majesty's forces as soon as possible."

"In that case, I believe it would be a good idea to reinforce the garrisons at Pelargir and Poros simply to threaten Harondor and the troops under the command of that Haradrim woman. They will be no more than a two days march from the White City; no strategic harm will be done to its defenses."

"I concur, Your Grace," said General Fuinur.

"I too, Your Grace," said Lord Ostoher.

Rain began to patter on the walls of the White Tower.

The Queen Mother did not like this scheme. _What are they plotting_, she wondered looking from one advisor to the next. _What advantage for them is in spreading our forces out?_ "The defense of this City must be our paramount concern," she sent out that feeler.

"Your Grace," the Steward said. "That is our paramount concern. There are more than a million and a half fighting men out there behind Rammas Echor. Dysentery and other diseases will soon run rampant like a plague through their camps. It is already beginning. Your Grace, please, for the health of our fighting men, spread out the line of defense into the city of Osgiliath and into Ithilien."

"There is nothing we have to lose in such a move," said Lord Túrin. _Of all people, my Lord Túrin_, the Queen Mother thought. "It is reasonable under the disciplines of war, Your Grace. There are more than enough men in the normal garrison to effectively man the Rammas Echor. We can bleed the Usurper to death in Ithilien before he even arrives at our gates."

"It would also be wise, Your Grace," continued General Fuinur, "to defend the Stone Bridge over the Anduin at Osgiliath better than we are now."

_I don't like this line of reasoning_, thought the Queen Mother. _It is too reasonable. It sounds too good and too proper on the surface. These men wouldn't agree with each other unless they had something to gain from it. What is there to be gained? How many of these men mean to run from this fight? Lord Ostoher surely; Steward Heremir, perhaps. I will have to divide these men._

"Your Grace," Steward Heremir said. "I mean to take none but the men under my charge. Those whom bear the badge of the black chair. That is all."

"And I mine own," said Lord Ostoher. "The others and the legions garrisoned on my land I leave to your discretion."

The Queen Mother took a deep breath to gather her thoughts. She wanted all the soldiers behind the Rammas Echor to remove all possible chance for desertion. Spreading the men out will make it easier for them to break away from her much like the lords out west. Still, she had to give these men the appearance that they could sway her in order to uncover their hidden agendas. "Steward Heremir, I give you leave to garrison your lands as you best see fit, but only when you return from your duties out in the western fiefs."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Heremir said.

The Queen Mother nodded. "Lord Ostoher, however, leave I give you not." She watched his face carefully. "Your men are necessary for the defense of Minas Anor."

The Lord of Pelargir begrudgingly accepted her pronouncement.

_That ought to drive a wedge between them_, she thought. _Make him wonder what behind the scenes deal Steward Heremir made to get his troops out of the Rammas Echor._ Esgaler smiled and then said, "This Court session is dismissed."

The Queen Mother stood, and everyone followed. She then left the Throne Room to the covered walkway that would take her back to the King's House.

Steward Heremir watched her exit. _I will follow your instruction out west_, he told himself. _But upon my return, you, my Queen Mother, have a Steward lost_.

The patter of rain became a downpour.

---


	16. Chapter 15 part 1: Tinsereg's War

Excerpt from the personal journal of Crown Prince Elagor:

"As I move further eastward against these barbaric Easterlings I find myself more and more at odds with my brothers in my heart. Their counsel is becoming more and more suspect to my ears with each passing day. I find it difficult to send Tinsereg out on the special missions his strategies call for. He reports that he ran into a small band of refugee Rhovanion warriors and let them go. This decision was not wise and I cannot count on him to follow my orders on the battlefield as well. A careful watch will have to be set on him.

"As to Pelatur, he's a snake in human form if there ever was one. He is almost as bad as Esgaler and Mithrim. The only things in his mind are wheels and gears. Every time I look at him all I see all those dead cats that were found mysteriously skinned alive while we were children. Everyone knew it was him, but nobody said a word, as if they didn't want such things to exist. I cannot abide this anymore. My Kingdom, with Ilúvatar's blessing, will be an empire where virtue and compassion will be compulsory. My will shall be absolute and strife will cease in our heartland. The slow death of moral decay will be purged upon my coronation."

October 2, 301 FA

---

---

There was a celebration that night. The fires were blazing, the licking flames ten feet above the ground. The Arnorian and Rohirrim armies had spent the past month relentlessly pushing east. Their enemies had scattered from the central roads, concentrating themselves in the hinterlands of the north and south of Rómenondor to keep from getting corralled again.

With the Rohirrim providing a strong rearguard Elagor was able to destroy the northern Easterling and Wainrider army. However, Elagor's supplies were beginning to run low as he feasted every night spent at a broken roadside holdfast.

The King of Dale and Esgaroth sent down the greater portion of his power, though he and his heirs remained. Their infantry came as phalanxes with spears and round metal shields, decorated with heraldic symbols. Their cavalry carried long curved swords, richly ornamented with thin but strong blades, and their bows were as tall as they. All of Rhovanion was turning back to the Reunited Kingdom.

The effects of the Easterling army were always apparent in Rómenondor. The peasants had done as good a job as they could burning their crops to deny them to their enemies. Homes were burnt and holdfasts were shattered. Dead bodies littered the wells in the towns and villages where resistance had been fierce. Even in the smallest of hamlets there were always the swaying bodies of peasants strung up on the slow growing dry air trees.

Refugees bloated his host as well. More came every day. That was another problem. Elagor was the only ally in the East with food and water. All the stores and preserves had been raided. It would be another year before Rómenondor will be able to feed itself again.

Wainriders carried their own supplies. It was vital to capture the enemy wains before their drivers could escape or burn them down as well. As it was, there was barely enough food to make it to Rómendacilbar, and Tinsereg didn't hold out much hope they'd find much stores there.

Tinsereg walked through the rows of captured wains. Legion quartermaster officers were scurrying to create an inventory. "How goes it," he asked one of them.

"This is a gold mine," responded one of the officers. "Everything we need is here."

"Any estimates on how long all this will last?"

"Till Rómendacilbar, at least."

Smiling, Tinsereg headed back to his tent. He noticed his brothers talking as they walked toward Elagor's tent. He began to trot over to join them when someone called his name. He stopped to see who it was. When it wasn't immediately apparent he turned back towards his brothers. They were already entering Elagor's tent.

"Prince Tinsereg," a knight jogged over. He had the starburst sigil on his tunic, marking him one of Pelatur's men. "We have something for you to honor your victory in battle."

"Was this Pelatur's idea," Tinsereg asked. He'd grown wary of his brother's practical jokes.

"Actually it was Crown Prince Turgor's," the knight confessed.

Still not completely convinced this was a good idea he left with the knight.

Tinsereg's field tent was on loan from Elagor. As was the cot and the other decorations. His armor hung on display in the corner.

There were two other Sunburst knights in his tent securing a small girl with a light frame covered by only a blanket.

"Surprise," the knight that had led him to his tent exclaimed.

The two other knights pulled the blanket off the girl. She was petit and lanky. One of the various races of Easterling by the look of her: light smooth skin with almond shaped black eyes and black hair.

"She's the prettiest of the spoils from the days fight," one of the other knights in his tent said. "Crown Prince Turgor found her and thought of you. Figured it was only proper since it was your tactics that won the day. She's not a virgin, but... can't exactly hold that against her, now can we." The other knights laughed.

The girl refused to look anyone in the eye. "Thank you," Tinsereg said, and then politely gestured for them to leave.

When they were gone he walked up to the girl and held her chin so he could see her face. "What's your name," he asked.

She refused to answer.

"Then I shall call you Dîn," he said. "It means _silence_ in High Quenya." She lived up to her given name. Tinsereg went around her and grabbed the blanket. Then he discovered that it wasn't a blanket at all, but a flag. The red flag with a black tree Tinsereg had seen the General of Khand display.

_So it is here in the East as well_, Tinsereg realized. "What is this?" he asked. Then more forcefully, "What is this? Is it the flag of your tribe? Is it the flag of a union of Gondor's enemies? What?"

Dîn shivered and froze up. She was scared beyond recall. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Tinsereg backed off and gently laid the flag back over her shoulders. She gripped strongly and covered herself. "You speak the Common Tongue? If you run, you'll die out there. You won't make it past the sentries." He walked over to his cot. "Dîn," he called out. She turned.

_So she does understand Common_. "Please sit down."

She did so, as if content. Tinsereg smiled. "What is the name of your Easterling tribe?" Dîn's expression didn't change. He chuckled at her silence. "Well... before anything begins," he said and walked over to the tent's door flaps. He punched the center of the left flap and made contact with something. A loud grunt of pain, and the sounds of a body hitting the ground and others scurrying away, came from outside. "Now we can have some privacy."

Prince Tinsereg sat in his desk chair and fell asleep.

Dîn slept on his cot.

---

Pelatur followed his older brother into the King's tent. In the corner Elagor's armor hung from its stand. The flag of Arnor, a white tree with its roots in a map of Arnor topped by a crown and seven stars, hung behind a tripod field seat. The King's cot was to his left and a desk with official papers was on his right.

"What did you think the Rhovanion princes would do," Pelatur asked with contempt in his voice.

"I will not be criticized for my mercy," Elagor retorted. "In war, it comes hard won."

Many Rhovanion princes had come to Elagor's army begging forgiveness. Their desperation and fear were mere amusements to Elagor, but he let them up gently. His father had said once that "wars should be fought with savage cruelty towards the enemy, but when the trumpets of surrender sound, that is the best time to show the gentler sides of your nature." It was a lesson Elagor had taken to heart.

It had paid off before. Elagor was fond of using the troops of lords, vassals, and other allies of questionably loyalties in the center of his line, the most dangerous position. Elagor always argued that this was to prove their valor, but it was also to better control them. It ensured they didn't desert and cost them the greater part of their strength while his more trusted troops suffered less.

This was the hardest, toughest war Elagor had fought in his career. He was used to destroying orc hosts out of the Misty Mountains in campaigns that lasted only a few months or so. He considered this fight his entrance exam to the White Throne, and those Rhovanion princes had fought bravely and suffered great loss at the center of his battle lines. They had passed their test and earned his respect.

"Do you not desire to see these inconstant nobles brought to justice," Pelatur demanded. He was fond of manipulating the Rhovanion princes into making commands contrary to Rómendacilbar and then dangling harsh punishments to watch them plead for mercy. Elagor, in his estimation, was like entertained, but didn't understand how that tactic could be used to secure his power.

Elagor simply turned to his younger brother and with a voice as unshakable as stone said, "I desire nothing but the complete conquest of the West. The Reunited Kingdom will be mine, but that will not be all. We have grown fat and callow behind secure borders. Vice and corruption have infested our people. This I mean to rout out by renewed struggle."

"But brother," Pelatur was becoming worried. "Eldarion, our grandfather, himself judged Gondor to have reached the maximum extent of its effective overlordship."

"To that I disagree," Elagor said. "Our ancestors, the Númenoreans, held sway over virtually the whole of Middle-earth."

"They held an unrivaled fleet and ruled by counsel, not direct lordship. Their power never extended far into the interior of any landmass. They fell when they tried to rule all."

"It is in that regard I mean to surpass the Númenoreans," Elagor declared. "I will create and Empire so universal that its virtue will cover all mortal lands and hearts."

For the first time in his life, Pelatur stood in awe and fear of his elder brother. His practical mind protested that the cost of such a venture in coin and lives would beggar the Reunited Kingdom. The uncompromising logic of it would destroy not only his brother and his kingdom but Pelatur himself, and the whole of the Imperial Family as well. Elagor's vision of perfection would destroy all.

Pelatur had always been ambitious, had always dreamed of being High King himself. He even went as far as denying Elagor the cavalry support he needed, hoping some Easterling would bury an ax in him. Now his desires had a purpose, a justification beyond personal satisfaction. He would save Gondor from Elagor. This newfound motivation had no practical implications. The plan was already in place.

"In order to do this, I require your help," Elagor continued.

Pelatur went to one knee. "My sword and life are yours," he declared.

"Rohan I mean to bend to my awe," Elagor said. "They are the only conceivable threat to our center. Yet they are our allies, and I will not violate their territory. I mean only to possess them as a vassal state, wholly dependent on the Reunited Kingdom to survive. I require your talents to accomplish this."

"The vast majority of the Rohirrim Riders must be destroyed on this campaign then. Their native culture is virtually dead now, so we might be successful."

Elagor nodded.

_And now the fun begins._ "Tinsereg will figure it out, though," Pelatur said. "And he's been keeping things from you."

"How so?"

"He came on this campaign with eleven Citadel Guards," Pelatur explained. "Now he has only ten, yet he doesn't claim to have lost one."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Where did that extra Citadel Guard come from," Pelatur asked rhetorically. "He had the speech, when he did speak, of Minas Anor."

"So have I Citadel Guardsmen with the Anor accent."

"He came across the King of Theaulflan some days ago. It's a small realm on the Carnen River near the Sea of Rhûn. The band under this King he let go after one night without fully determining their purpose. I believe the Citadel Guardsmen, and few of your own Knights, went with him."

Elagor winced. "He always was the renegade."

"Sereg cannot be controlled," said Pelatur, thankful that his brother didn't ask how he knew about all of this, "and therefore must be done away with before he does away with you. I told you Sereg will attempt to steal the glory of this fight from you. If the men begin to believe that our victory here is actually Tinsereg's… who knows how long you will be able to keep their loyalty. Maybe they'll put _him_ on the Throne. You know this has to be done. This act might also ingratiate you to the nobility of Gondor."

_So Pelatur would have me claim my throne over the blood of my own brother_, Elagor thought. _This is exactly the corruption I mean to destroy._ He said, "Tinsereg is a wild card, but he has many uses and never made an overt act against us. I do not like this business about that Rhovanion King, but I will not call him traitor."

"You don't have to," Pelatur said. "We're in a war. Our brother thrives behind enemy lines. Put him at the front, in charge of infantry, where he is less capable. Make him a martyr for your cause."

_My brothers will betray me_, Elagor realized at that point. They stood in his way and would have to be dealt with before the Golden Age could begin. _Pelatur has already betrayed me. I need to keep him occupied so he can't plot against me. Tinsereg will likewise turn eventually_. Elagor smiled. _Keep your friends close and your enemies closer._ "In our next major engagement, Tinsereg will lead the main thrust of our infantry."

Pelatur nodded with a hidden smirk on his face. _It's the beginning of the end for you brother._

---

The camp was struck early the next morning. Tinsereg walked out as attendants of Elagor's began dismantling his loaned tent and remove the furniture within to the wagon. He made sure there was a place for Dîn there before getting to his horse. Looking about, there were a few naked Easterling young women lying in the dirt. They'd been strangled by the soldiers they spent the night with, or run through with swords. _Pity_, he thought.

The legionnaires and levies, knights and mounted lancers were all preparing for the day's march. They packed up their small tents, made cooking fires, ate a small breakfast, and packed up their marching packs. Knights helped their squires brush their horses, mounted lancers brushed theirs unassisted. Both put on their chainmail hauberks and riding sircoats.

Mounted lancers were the same as knights except they had no familial tradition to upkeep. Most mounted lancers were the sons of merchants and businessmen who didn't have the mind to their father's business. They did, however, have the money and free time to train from a very early age to be lancers.

Life in the Gondorian legion was not all that bad of a prospect. For the wretches of the slums of the cities it was guaranteed sanitation and three square meals. As long as your tent was mended you were always dry at night and had a cot beneath you. Discipline was harsh, but not unforgiving. Drills and marches took up the vast majority of their time. Legionnaires also built the roads and holdfasts that connected and defended the Kingdom. Standing shoulder to shoulder with men you knew as brothers, a legionnaire felt secure in knowledge that he was part of the best fighting force in the West.

Plus it was a means of advancement to a paid retirement, membership in the Citadel Guard, or the granting of a small plot of land to call your own. The legion had made respectable many a young bachelor for middle class families and the petty aristocracy.

Centurions formed up the ranks for the march east. Rohirrim Riders moved out to cover the flanks. Knights and mounted lancers formed up at the head and rear of the massive column, bookends to the legions, levies, and huge baggage train going down the road.

They sang as they marched.

_From the Halls of Annúminas to the shores of Pelargir_

_We fight our Kingdom's battles in our heart, on land and sea._

_First to fight for King and ransom, and to keep our honor clean;_

_We are proud to claim this field for our stalwart Legion mean._

…

_If the Knights and the Levies ever look on Heaven's airs_

_They will find the streets are guarded by Arnor's Legionnaires._

They sang _The Bold Soldier_ and _As I Walked Forth_ and _Under Yonder Oaken Tree_. They sang _The Ballad of Isildur_, _Lament of Eärendur_, and _The Ride of the Rohirrim from the North_. But most of all they sang:

_Let rouges and cheats prognosticate_

_Concerning King's or Kingdom's fate_

_I think myself to be as wise_

_As he that gazeth on the skies_

_My sight goes beyond_

_The depth of a pond_

_Or rivers in the greatest rain_

_Whereby I can tell_

_That all will be well_

_When the King enjoys his own again_

_Yes, this I can tell_

_That all will be well_

_When the King enjoys his own again_

Was part of it.

---

"I don't like it," Tinsereg said surveying the battlefield. "They mean to draw us up those hills where our legions cannot hold tight their formations. The rest of the army will be trapped by that river."

It was raining hard. The first good rain of the season. It would be snowing in a few months. They would have to reach Rómendacilbar before then.

To the south there was a seasonal stream bed. With this rain and the runoff from the Ash Mountains it was now a raging torrent.

"That means they'll try to outflank us from the north," Pelatur added. "From those elevations there."

"This is a bad position for us," Tinsereg said.

"Well fight them here," King Elagor decided. "We'll defeat them here."

"It'll be tough going," Tinsereg said.

"Losing your nerve younger brother," Pelatur jested.

Tinsereg gave his brother a hard look.

"The enemy is just beyond those hills," Elagor said. "Our cavalry will be best on this flat ground. We need coax them onto this flat ground where our cavalry can then crush them."

"I think they're anticipating that tactic," said Tinsereg. "That's why they chose this ground to begin with. They will not venture out onto the plain."

"In every engagement it has been our cavalry that's been the decisive factor," explained Elagor. "You disagree?"

"No, of course not, brother King," said Tinsereg. He sighed deeply. "If we are to funnel the enemy onto the plain we need to control the territory. Or move off and force them into an engagement where the terrain favors us."

"I will not shy from a battle," muttered Elagor.

"I agree with the latter," said Pelatur. "Take the initiative on _this_ ground, make the enemy move the way we want them too."

"Then we should take those hills to the north so they can't outflank us," Tinsereg suggested. "The river is as much an obstacle to them as it is to us."

Elagor lifted his head to peer into the dark clouds, letting the heavy rain drops splash upon his face. _So this is how my brothers wish to steer me_, he thought. _Where will the betrayal come from?_ "The Rohirrim will occupy those hills immediately."

"That will pull them away from the baggage train and our rear guard," Tinsereg cautioned.

"Our mounted lancer brigades can take up that duty," Elagor replied. "I want the Riders on our left, the river to our right, and the enemy with no place to go but straight forward."

"The enemy might already be on those hills," Pelatur said.

"Then the Riders will just have to take those hills," Elagor responded. He then looked at Pelatur and nodded. Pelatur got the message. This was how the Riders were to be destroyed.

"I will deliver your commands," Pelatur said, and then took his leave.

"The ground is too wet for an effective cavalry charge," Tinsereg said. "In fact, it might be too wet tomorrow as well."

"Prince Éohelm can handle it."

"The enemy will probably attack those hills in earnest," said Tinsereg.

"You think the Rohirrim are not up to the challenge?"

"I think they will take heavy losses."

_So he knows. Pelatur was right._ "I want you to on the front, in command of the legions."

That caught Tinsereg off guard. Elagor had always demanded to lead at the front, not trusting anyone to be in his place. _Something is up_, Tinsereg figured. "Where will you be then, brother King?"

"I mean to lead a special force of my Citadel Guardsmen and one legion across the river to attack them from behind. If they won't go onto the plain, I'll drive them onto it. There's a ford we past half a day ago that'll serve. Pelatur will lead the van from the rear, as usual."

That was the craziest thing he'd ever heard his brother say. "You think you can make it across the river? Is that wise?" The ford would be just as torrential as the river was here, if not more so.

King Elagor didn't answer. His only response before he retired was, "You have your orders."

Early in the morning Tinsereg awoke from a fitful sleep. He ate a small, meager breakfast of bacon and bread. Attendants of his brother Elagor helped him into his armor.

"I have a bad feeling about this battle," Tinsereg muttered to himself.

Greaves went over woolen trousers and his boots. A chainmail hauberk with a high neck went over leather padding which itself went over a light silken shirt. Tinsereg didn't like gorget plates, and so had special hauberks made for him. Two curtains of lames were then added to put plate over his thighs. Vambraces went over his forearm and anchored the sleeves of his hauberk. Then came his breastplate and backplate.

His sircoat emblazoned with the white tree, crown, and stars went over the plate armor. There was the crescent moon stitched on his shoulder, the sigil of Harondor. Lobstered pauldrons attached at his shoulders and a cape was clipped into the clasps. Tinsereg put his own belt on with Hinruin on his left hip, a legion short sword and dirk on his right. Lastly came his leather gloves with iron rings between the joints of his fingers.

The attendant handed Tinsereg his helmet, bowed, and took his leave. Tinsereg took a deep breath and let the weight of his armor sink in. He remembered as a younger man jogging and exercising in full harness to build up his stamina and strength. Now, despite his Númenorean and elvish blood, he felt old. The armor felt heavier than it did before. Or maybe it was just his misgivings that made it seem harder to move around.

There was something going on between his brothers that Tinsereg wasn't privy to. It scared him to guess what it might be. He took a deep breath, hopped from foot to foot to let the armor settle and get his blood running. Grabbing his shield, Tinsereg then left his tent.

The legions were forming a hundred yards from the camp. Tinsereg walked through them and talked to the centurions, making sure everything was in order and the men in good spirits. Based on his brother's tactics, this would be the fight of their lives.

Elagor had already left across the river with a legion, his two sons, and three hundred Citadel Guardsmen. His was perhaps the most dangerous mission, isolated from the rest of the host. Tinsereg would be at the front of the main army, but he had no intention of leaving the plain nor exposing his flanks.

Trumpets sounded. It was time for the battle to begin.

Tinsereg put on his helmet and fastened the ties. It harkened back to Númenor in its design: conical with hinged flaps to protect his cheeks. Bronze and mithril ribs went up the sides for two-thirds of the helmet, narrowing as they went. Black feathers stuck out to the rear from these ribs and slowly angled upward as they went up the side, signifying him as a Prince of Gondor.

Citadel Guardsmen formed up on his sides. He would be the prime target for the enemy, but Tinsereg tried as hard as he could to put that out of his mind. There were no spare princes' armor to equip selected Citadel Guardsmen as decoys. He would have to face the full onslaught of the Easterling assaults alone.

Prince Éohelm was invested in the hills. He'd taken heavy casualties charging up and was now struggling to defend them. As long as the Rohirrim held, Tinsereg could only hope that the Easterlings would come onto the plain. He did not want to think about moving up the smaller hills in front of him. The many bristle bushes would make holding their formations impossible, and the trees would hinder archery cover beyond them.

The Easterlings seemed to know this as well.

Orc skirmishers came charging down from the hills. These were quickly slaughtered, and the survivors retreated back beyond the hill. Then Wainriders and chariots came down and shot arrows into the legions.

"Tortoise!" Tinsereg shouted, and the formation was established with little loss. The legionnaires clustered together, the middle ranks holding their shields above their heads and the perimeter men turned their shields to the outside. The result was four walls and a ceiling per century of legionnaires.

They were trying to coax the legions onto the hills.

Lord Redbarad, in charge of the archers again, had them hurling missiles at the Wainriders and chariots. With Elagor across the river, and Ilúvatar knows where he was, there was a big gap in the command structure. Everything depended on Pelatur's command and Elagor's secret mission. If those two fronts remained in unison, then the battle will be won. If they were not in concert with each other, then the outcome would be in grave doubt.

Tinsereg felt it was important to make room for another legion to come in behind him and thicken the ranks. He ordered the tortoise formations forward thirty steps. This also constricted the Wainrider skirmishers.

Then the skirmishers stopped. Tinsereg relaxed the tortoise formation.

The field was silent for a long time. Everyone was getting antsy.

"Alert the rear guard," Lord Redbarad ordered his aide-de-camp, worrying about a surprise attack from behind.

Pelatur ordered the legions forward to near the base of the hill. Tinsereg complied, thinking that their proximity would provoke the Easterlings into charging. Then he could retreat while fighting, pulling the Easterlings onto the plain where the cavalry could strike.

Then a shield wall appeared on the hill. Javelins and stones came hurling down. They bounced off the legion's shields.

"Fire," shouted Lord Redbarad.

Arrows went flying into the shield wall. The wall retreated behind the hill again.

This was a test of wills. Who would become impatient first and make the unwise charge.

"Spread the word," Tinsereg announced to the men around him. "Ready javelins. The next time that shield wall appears I want everyone to throw one." Gondorian javelins were designed to bend at a notch on impact, rendering a shield useless.

When the shield wall came again the legionnaires threw their javelins. When the arrows came, they were more effective. Satisfying screams of pain came from the hill. The wall disappeared.

The legionnaires began to imperceptibly surge forward impatiently. They were eager for a fight. "Easy men," Tinsereg said. "Our discipline is greater than theirs. They will make the mistake, we won't."

The next Wainrider skirmish was a disaster for the attackers. The Arnorian archers killed many as they raced across the face of the legion. The archers and knights also secured the left flank. The Wainriders would have to be exposed for too long to bring any significant power to bear on the flanks of the legion.

Another pause.

The Wainriders came again. This time their chariots were different. Scythes, a meter in length, were tied to the wheels with their cutting edges presented to the front. They smashed into the right quarter of the legion, penetrating deep. But the second legion beat them back and they were repulsed at loss. Many reserves moved forward to fill the gaps.

Nobody moved.

A great clamor began across the river. _Valar be damned,_ Sereg cursed. Whatever it was, it meant that Elagor would not cross the river anytime soon. Things were not going well.

"Wait here." Tinsereg dropped his shield and ran up to the hill alone. He darted from one bristle bush to the next. He then crawled up to the crown of the hill. After taking his helmet off he peered over the top.

There were hundreds in the valley between two hill ridges. More thousands were sitting and waiting on the hills behind them.

The Easterling front was hiding just behind the crest of the hill. They spotted him. Tinsereg ran at full speed down the hill and back to his line. Easterlings came up to the crest of the hill, throwing spears and slings in hand.

Arnorian javelins and arrows flew into their ranks. Tinsereg slid back into his position on the line, grabbed his shield, and held it above his head. Stones bounced off of it.

The Easterlings retreated to behind the hill again.

A bit later enemies appeared across the river. They were orcs, uruks mainly, racing into the river. Elagor then appeared at the front of a battalion of Citadel Guardsmen and legionnaires chasing the orcs into the river. All the orcs drowned.

Victory. The only problem was Elagor's rear attack was now impossible because the enemy knew where he was. He would never make it across the river to engage the main Easterling host now. Arrows and other missiles now assaulted Elagor's host. Things were going badly for the Arnorians.

Artur, Pelatur's son, then came up to Tinsereg. He looked like a miniature adult in his armor. "What did you see, uncle Prince?"

"Thousands," responded Tinsereg. "The land is of waving hills. Tell your father that if we can outflank them with the Arnorian cavalry we may be able to sneak up close to them, hidden in the hill valleys. Or, take the knights and drive them right up the hill with the legions behind. With King Elagor's position known to the enemy he cannot attack from the rear. A cavalry offensive is needed. This is his decision now."

Artur left. Then returned. "My father says that you are to take the legions forward over the hill."

"No. The Easterlings are right below the crest. They will hear us advancing and attack while our formations are broken up. It's the cavalry that has enough speed to make it up the hill effectively and break their lines. We cannot hope for an attack from across the river to distract them. The legions will not make it up the hill face without heavy casualties."

Artur left, and returned with his father's reply. "My father orders you to take the legions forward with all speed."

"Ask him why."

Artur left, then returned again. "The Easterlings will come over the top of the hill and then you are to retreat and draw them onto the plain. My father also says that if you do not lead the charge, then you will be striped of command and replaced by someone who will. You will be held for cowardice in the face of the enemy and brought before High King Elagor for judgment."

"Then I will," Tinsereg said masking his anger. "Ask him if there is any news of Rohirrim on my left. After your response, I will take the legions up the hill."

When Artur returned he said, "They still hold the flank."

"Thank you; now return to your father."

Tinsereg didn't know it at the time, but the Rohirrim had been driven off the hill and had been sent back to reclaim it. Prince Éohelm near mutinied when he was ordered to retake the hill, "I warn you," Éohelm shouted. "If it's our destruction you desire you'd better pray harder. This is but half the strength of our land!"

"Then if you don't take those hills I'll account you less than half your kingdom, Prince of the Mark," Pelatur responded.

Back Prince Éohelm went. Pelatur figured that the failed infantry charge would kill Tinsereg. Either the Easterlings will push him back going up the hill or the Wainriders will outflank him from the left. Then the Arnorian knights, lead personally by himself, will charge up and win the battle. There would also be much slaughter amongst the Riders as well, accomplishing his second objective. Pelatur smiled to himself. The plan was near perfect. Éohelm's indignation was no more than the last of the hot air gasping from a corpse.

Tinsereg resigned himself to his fate. _We're all going to die_. He ordered the second legion to pass up their javelins up to the front.

He girt himself for a hard fight, and then took one step forward. There was no order given, nor any signal. The whole front legion just wordlessly walked forward with their captain. At the foot of the hill with the deadly brush he let loose a bloodcurdling cry and ran up the hill.

Everyone followed suit. They all got bunched together and the lines jumbled with trying to make it around the bristles. They couldn't reform their ranks as they went further.

The Easterling charged down hard. Their speed and force near doubled because they were going downhill.

"Javelins!" Tinsereg cried. The first wave devastated the front of Easterlings. There was no time for a second throw. The two armies clashed with titanic force. Tinsereg was near knocked over, held up only by the legionnaire behind him.

An ax handle smacked into his left pauldron. He twisted and shoved the Easterling to the ground. Another legionnaire stabbed the Easterling while Tinsereg was attacked again. He took the ax in the shield and ran the Easterling through with his sword.

The line buckled and wavered, then stabilized into a jagged hacking and slashing jumble. Each man in the legion was responsible for killing the enemy to his right, supporting his fellow legionnaire. But the press was in the Easterling's advantage. They had greater numbers and the high ground, yet the legion refused to take even one step backward.

There was no effective command. Tinsereg couldn't order a retreat back onto the plain that wouldn't become a rout before the cavalry attacked. He wouldn't sacrifice all these men. The only choice was to fight on up the hill.

It was a savage affair. A pile of grotesque and mangled bodies and limbs suffocated the front. The lines became completely jumbled in a chaotic melee. Tinsereg had his back to two Citadel Guardsmen. He blocked two ax blows with his shield, broke the nose of one with his shield and cut the hand off the other one. He dodged another ax and put his sword through the chin and up into the brain of the attacker.

The Citadel Guardsman on his right fell. An ax dented Tinsereg's helmet. He slashed wildly then charged the Easterling, putting his sword through his enemy's heart as he fell on top of him.

Somehow, Sereg lost his sword while scrambling to his feet. _No matter_.

Tinsereg blocked another ax with his shield then drove it into the Easterling's knee. The Easterling's scream was choked and gurgled. Tinsereg grabbed his dirk from his waist sliced the Easterling's neck open.

Before another Easterling could bring his ax down on the Prince, Tinsereg smashed his face with edge of his shield, breaking the Easterling's jaw before he jammed the dagger into the Easterling's heart, letting the dirk go with fallen foe.

Sereg found his legionnaires sword, put his boot to the dead Easterling, and pulled his short sword out. After killing another one who came up from behind, Tinsereg surveyed the battlefield. _This stalemate has gone on long enough!_

Throwing his shield down on the ground, Tinsereg shouted, "Forward! Forward Men of Arnor! Be copy now to the war-proof fathers that did beget you! Live or die, there is nothing yet before you but days of death and glory!"

Everyone, friend and foe, watched him hack and slash his way up the rest of the hill. Citadel Guardsmen and legionnaires, with renewed strength, began to follow him up. Tinsereg threw his short sword into an Easterling. He made it to the top of the hill. With the heart of Tulkas beating in his breast and the fury of Ulmo raging in his soul, Hinruin was unsheathed from its peaceful scabbard and down went all before him.

---

The marching songs, unless referencing a specific name or invention of Tolkien, are old British or Irish folk songs… or a parody of the US Marine Corps Hymn. (sorry about that)


	17. Chapter 15 part 2: Romendacilbar

Pelatur often complained of orc hideouts in the Hills of Rhûn, just north of Rómendacilbar. He and his predecessors had built a chain of forts sweeping through the territory. Before their siege of Rómendacilbar, the Hills will have to be cleared of enemies. This task fell to Tinsereg, leading a joint force of Arnorian cavalry and Rohirrim Riders.

The forts were all destroyed. There were swaths of burnt lands pox marking the birch and bamboo forests. However, everything seemed to have occurred a while ago. There was nothing recent. Nothing at all.

Tinsereg led his men around one of these burnt out areas. They were the perfect areas for ambushes. Prince Turgor rode up beside him.

"Do you see anything?" he asked.

"No, nothing yet."

"It's been three days without any signs of the enemy," he said.

"This terrain is too perfect for hiding large numbers of men," responded Tinsereg. "They're here."

They rode on. Through the trees and craggy valleys they rode on. There were cliffs and streams and caves, but no enemies. It was strange and eerie. Eventually Tinsereg was forced to consider the possibility that the Hills were in fact empty.

The sun was shining, but the days were mostly cloudy. Light came through the leafy canopy in dusty rays. The temperature had cooled and Tinsereg was feeling cold. The days were dry but tolerable, the nights, however, were bitterly freezing.

Even during the deep of winter Harondor was never this cold. His nephew was poking fun at him for it. "If you wrapped yourself up anymore, I'd confuse you for a woman."

"That would make me the prettiest woman ever to smack you with the flat edge of a sword."

"Prettiest I can't argue," Turgor said. "But not the first. How's that woman I sent you before the last battle?"

"Where'd you find her?"

"Hiding in one of the wains," answered Turgor. "She had a Wainrider's scimitar in her hands, but she didn't know how to use it. She was fierce at first, but we quieted her down. I judged she fit to your tastes, so I sent her over to you, uncle Prince. Was she not satisfactory?"

"Did you look at what you wrapped her in," asked Tinsereg.

"No."

"It was a flag, a black tree on a red field. I saw that same kind of flag down south in Khand. I believe it is of some significance."

"No, I didn't notice it," said Turgor.

"Pay attention," said Tinsereg. "Look out for those flags, and tell me and your father where and when you see one. It probably will be of importance."

Turgor nodded in acceptance.

After a fortnight Tinsereg decided that the Hills of Rhûn were effectively secure. He decided to head south along the coast of the Sea of Rhûn. The moist air would be good for them. A day later, they finally found evidence of recent activity.

There was smoke rising from a broken clay fort protecting a small dock. He signaled for his men to line up and screen the fort. There was a small beach behind it and a few wrecked, burnt fishing canoes.

"Hullo, in there!" Tinsereg shouted. "I am Tinsereg! Prince of Gondor!"

Three men stood on the parapet with bows. Tinsereg and his men readied themselves. Those men relaxed their bows and called out in a language he didn't understand, waving as if to invite them in.

"Do you know what they're saying," asked Turgor to his uncle.

"No I don't," Tinsereg responded. "But it's not Easterling." He kicked his horse forward. Turgor and his Citadel Guard followed but the rest stayed behind.

There was a breach in the wall that Tinsereg rode through. The courtyard had been turned into a makeshift graveyard. About thirty graves dotted sandy ground. Ten survivors manned the wall. A few women and children stood in the back, pikes and spears in their hands. Their eyes carried a cold, distant, battle-hardened quality that grieved Tinsereg.

A young man came up to him. "You of Gondor," he asked in Westron, the Common Tongue.

"Yes."

The man motioned for him to enter a small building, possibly a granary, in the corner. Tinsereg unhorsed and followed.

Inside there was a wounded man laying on some rugs. His armor was piled in the corner, and it looked like the same armor the Theaulflan horsemen wore. He was feverish with a cold sweat. There was a deep gash in his abdomen that bled out despite the bandages.

Tinsereg turned to Turgor, who was standing in the doorway. "Get Curucam in here now." Curucam was the apothecary traveling with Tinsereg's war party.

There was nothing that could be done. His fever was too high and his stomach was stiffening with infection. The Theaulflan knight was going to die. "I can give him poppy milk to ease his pain, but that is all," Curucam reported.

"Then do it," Tinsereg said.

After the knight was resting somewhat comfortably Tinsereg left the granary. Curucam stayed with the Theaulflan knight. Captains of his own troops began filtering into the fort, then random men streamed in until the courtyard was crowded.

Tinsereg walked up to the young man whom he spoke to earlier. "What is your name?"

"Aviniath, my lord."

"Aviniath, then, what happened here?"

The youth laid out the story. They were part of the refugee army lead by King Ainuvilial. The King, inspired by the Arnorian push east, decided to take the offensive. He led them into the Hills of Rhûn to use as a base to take back his kingdom. However, there were other Easterlings and orcs already there.

The King fought them off valiantly and destroyed their power in the Hills, but at too great a loss. He decided to push into his kingdom anyway, claiming that it was his duty to do so. Sûlamrath and the Arnorian horsemen parted from the King then to search for the King's daughter, Vilithiana. Of their tale Aviniath knew little, for he went with his king.

The battle was fierce and hard fought. "It was a savage affair," Aviniath recalled. King Ainuvilial was pushed back into the Hills where he was pursued. He then fought very successfully in the Hills and sapped his nephew's strength to such an extent that he circled around their troops and invested his kingdom again.

The King and his nephew then met in one final climatic battle. Both their armies were destroyed and both men fell in battle. There were too few survivors amongst the soldiers and the folk to bury the bodies of the slain. They left, abandoning the bodies to the crows and wolves, and their land to whomever wanted it.

Aviniath came back to the Hills with a few of his compatriots and countrymen. There he was reunited with Sûlamrath and the knights (for the mounted lancers had been knighted along the way) who had the King's daughter in tow.

"She cried bitterly for days when she learned about her father's fate," Aviniath said, choking up. "Of all the things... that's the only thing I can't get out of my head. Why won't she stop crying?"

However, there was no rest for the weary. They were attacked by Easterlings, orcs, and the remnants of the Theaulflan rebel army. On the move for weeks, they moved up and down the Hills, back out into the Rhovanion plains, to Dale and Esgaroth where they were denied entrance, and finally back to this fort where they made their last stand.

"The wall was breached and the enemy poured in," Aviniath said pointing. "The women folk and the knights tried to close the breach. The rest were up on the parapet firing arrows into the rear ranks... then fighting off those who came up on the ladders. This repeated itself a few times before the enemy finally broke through.

"I thought we were all dead. All your knights died defending the folk. Sûlamrath fell over there defending Vilithiana."

"I take it you finally chased them away," prodded Turgor.

"We wouldn't have survived another attack," Aviniath said. "Then one night they just disappeared. Vanished; like they were nothing more than a mirage."

"Is Vilithiana still alive," asked Tinsereg.

"I am here," she said, standing up from one of the graves. She wore a simple white chemise that was torn and stained to yellow. Blood and cuts wounded an otherwise pretty and comely face.

"Tinsereg," Curucam called from the granary. "He wishes to speak with you."

The knight was awake, but clearly at death's door. He pulled Tinsereg in close. "I hear that the High Kings of the West are closest to Ilúvatar," he said. "Since you are a brother to the High King, can you speak for his power?"

Seeing how desperate he was for a certain answer, Tinsereg nodded affirmatively but refused to answer with words.

"I have sinned greatly," the Theaulflan knight confessed. "I am Vinthalya, Chief Knight of Theaulflan, and it was through my actions that the King's nephew divided our people and usurped the crown. Expelled, I could not fight with him, but I did swear to defend his daughter when I came upon the band of your people. Because of this, I feel I can beg forgiveness."

"You have proved your worth and honor. Redemption is yours. Ilúvatar will look kindly upon you."

Vinthalya died with a smile on his face, but Tinsereg felt sick inside. He had no right and no place to say that, but he prayed that such transgressions made out of pity and mercy weren't out of forgiveness by Ilúvatar.

Vilithiana stood outside. "I have something for you." She went into another small side building and came back with a bundle in a sack. Tinsereg accepted it and looked inside. There were seven helmets, one a Citadel Guardsman helmet, with locks of the men' hair tied to cheek straps.

"Please accept this," she said. "The men fought valiantly."

"I will take this with me," Tinsereg said. Then looking at the graves he said, "In days of peace, men with the same armor as Sûlamrath will come. Lead them to this place and his grave so he may finally rest in his native land. For now, he will lay with those whom he was known in fellowship."

Vilithiana nodded in acceptance. "Sûlamrath, then, will be accorded special honor?"

Tinsereg wondered at the tone of her voice. "Yes," he answered.

"He deserves it," she said, her hand on her belly.

"How did you escape Rómendacilbar?"

"Your knights snuck in and freed me from the Palace. We escaped through the sewers, if that will help you."

Tinsereg nodded, his mind planning for the siege ahead.

"Why are you not back in your native land," he asked. "By rights you are now Queen of your people."

"We cannot defend ourselves for the journey," she answered. "And the boats are all in ruin."

"Then we will take you there," decided Tinsereg.

"Is that wise," asked Turgor. "We don't have time for this; the siege of Rómendacilbar will begin soon if it hasn't already. We must report to the High King."

"There will come a day, nephew Prince," said Tinsereg. "When you will learn the difference between a mission and a duty. It is our job to make sure the northern flank of the siege is secure, is it not? I will not allow an ally state of the Easterlings to remain standing." He then stood on a barrel and called out his men who were gathered there and heard Aviniath's story, "We ride north."

In power and prepared for war Tinsereg escorted the Queen of Theaulflan and the fort survivors back to their homeland. When they came over a ridge that looked down on the Carnen river valley that was Theaulflan, Vilithiana again broke down in tears.

All that could be seen was ash and devastation, the river was choked and gray.

"This was premier wine country," lamented one of Tinsereg's knights.

_Is this to be the fate of Gondor as well_, asked Tinsereg to himself. He managed to hide his own tears.

---

The city of Rómendacilbar was built at the southwest point of the Sea of Rhûn. It was in fact two cities, for the Palace of Rómendacilbar encompassed an island in the Sea and the rest of the city sprawled out from it on shore. Two great thoroughfares connected the Palace to the shore, one connecting it to the east and west shores and the other extending south from the Palace. These thoroughfares had draw bridges that could be winched up if the outer city fell and various sections could be burnt to create gaps. The Palace had its own harbor as well that could be used to ferry in supplies in case of a siege.

Elagor sat ahorsed looking down at the Jewel of the East. The double walls of the shoreline city were separated by a dry moat, the outer one eighty feet tall and the inner wall one hundred feet. He didn't have siege ladders or towers tall enough to reach the parapet, nor the time to build complex siege weapons. Broken down trebuchets on wagons had been carted over from Arnor and legionnaires busied themselves putting the artillery together. These were the only weapons they had available to use against the walls of Rómendacilbar.

It had begun to snow and Elagor knew his army needed shelter if they were to survive the winter. Rómendacilbar was that shelter; all he need do was take it. The snow actually surprised Elagor. The air had been so dry, even with the Sea of Rhûn nearby, that he wondered where all the moisture for snow came from.

"It looks like the roads to the Palace have been ruined," said Pelatur. "In order to be fully victorious, the Palace will need to be taken as well."

"I'm more concerned about the city walls right now," Elagor said. "We will have to breach both of them"

"Or a gate," said Pelatur. "That's what they did."

"Even if we get over the first wall it'll only be a kill zone from the second."

"Or climb the wall at the castles where the walls are connected," ventured Pelatur.

"No," the King decided. "Have the men start digging before the ground gets too hard. We'll collapse both the walls at the same time. Divide them up into two teams. We will breach the walls in two places, to the south and the west. Where is the wall the weakest?"

Pelatur didn't like the idea of tearing down the walls of his own city, making two breaches even less, but it was a necessary evil. By dividing the enemy forces they had a better chance of victory without a very high loss. "There's an old gate that's been bricked over along the south wall. That's the only obvious weak point. Another may have developed from neglect, but where it is I know not."

"Search for another one," Elagor ordered. "Have the trebuchet fire concentrated at the old gate. Focus the dig teams along the western wall then. I don't want to waste men in collapsed holes."

"Yes, brother King."

Elagor then turned his horse to head back to their own camp. He stopped to look over the great stone wall that stretched from the southeastern tip of the Sea of Rhûn all the way to the Ash Mountains. It was a barely discernible gray line beneath a gray sky along the far horizon. It marked the farthest frontier of his Kingdom. "Where'd they break over that?"

"A little bit farther south than can be seen," Pelatur answered. "About midway between the Sea and the mountains. Most of my power was delegated to manning the Rómenram. I didn't react quick enough to save off disaster. I called the men off the wall to better reinforce Rómendacilbar. I figured it wise to pull them back to one location and then mount offenses against their rear. I misjudged their numbers and the quality of their generalship."

"How did you escape the city," Elagor asked.

"Through a sewer system." Pelatur and his brother shared a glance. "You can't go back through there. I collapsed several of the tunnels in an attempt to drive them out with their own filth."

Elagor chuckled. "Well, it looks like they've re-fortified the gate they broke down. So we can't get in through there."

They both headed back to camp. Lord Redbarad greeted them. "The camp is ordered and fortified," he reported. "We can begin the siege in the morning."

"Good."

Lord Redbarad continued. "Your brother, Prince Tinsereg, has returned."

"About time," blurted Elagor.

The brothers reunited at the far end of the camp. Tinsereg was settling his men in at the time, organizing the fire pits and ensuring there was food enough. A human being can only eat journeying rations for so long.

"Well met, brother," Elagor began.

"Well met, brother King."

"That took longer than expected."

"We encountered refugees from Theaulflan in the Hills. Since there was no enemy to be found we escorted them back to their land in order to remove an Easterling ally and reestablish a friendly kingdom to the north."

"There were no enemies in the Hills," Pelatur asked skeptically.

"The Theaulflan King ridded the enemy from the Hills of Rhûn long before we arrived."

"Really," Pelatur inquisitively said.

"Theaulflan is destroyed though," reported Tinsereg. "The land is broken and barren. They came back with us. Vilithiana is their Queen now."

"You mean to marry her as well," jested Pelatur.

Tinsereg gave his brother a hard look. "Hardly."

"Come to my tent," Elagor invited his brothers. "We have a siege to plan."

The brothers, Lord Redbarad, and Prince Éohelm stood around a detail map of Rómendacilbar and the surround. Elagor went over the plan he and Pelatur had roughed together on top of the ridge. To this Tinsereg added, "Why not we do all? Overwhelm them. Aim the trebuchets at one location, the stronger wall; secretly dig under the weaker wall so its breach will be wider. Knock both down, and storm all the joints with ladders."

"They won't be able to concentrate their forces at either of the breaches," Prince Éohelm said. "We will be able to penetrate with speed then."

Elagor nodded. Lord Redbarad spoke up. "This siege must be done quickly. Winter is upon us and disease will spread quickly through the camp if we are trapped behind our palisades."

"We need to weather the winter within the city walls," agreed Pelatur. "There is no question to that fact."

"The Theaulflan Queen was rescued through the sewer system," Tinsereg reported. "Perhaps that could be of some use as well."

Elagor turned to face Pelatur.

"We collapsed all the sewer tunnels," Pel defended himself.

"In any case," Prince Éohelm said. "I doubt we could sneak an army inside."

"Then we take the city by storm." Elagor then dismissed his Council.

Trebuchets pounded the western walls and lobed fiery bushels into the city. Arnorian peasants dug secretly under the old gate on the southern wall. Ladders were prepared and orders given to storm up them at the joints where the double walls of Rómendacilbar were joined by a walkway.

At the appointed time the tunnels were set with dry bushels and hot burning wood. The subterranean fire weakened the ground above it, collapsing the tunnel. With the ground fallen away, the wall at the old gate toppled.

Legions were set in order for the assault. Lord Redbarad ordered a dense archery barrage on the defenders who lined up to defend the breach. The trebuchets fired on the western wall in earnest now. It cracked, buckled, broke, and finally crumbled.

A defender along the southern and eastern walls would have seen the three Dúnedain princes along the ridge overlooking the city. Elagor, Pelatur, and Tinsereg sat on their horses overseeing the siege. They pulled out their swords. Nár gleaming blue, Calanarien shinning green, and Hinruin blazing red. The Dúnedain princes pointed their swords forward, and assault began.

With the archers continuing to fire, the legions marched forward. The peasant levies, carrying siege ladders, ran in an uncontrolled crowd towards the walls. They set the ladders up and began to climb in the face of a storm of arrows.

The legions threw their javelins towards the breaches and then charged forward. The orc defenders pilled up a wall of their dead to block the legionnaires. The carcasses were shoved aside and the orcs engaged directly. Lord Redbarad halted the archers.

At the breaches the legions pushed and shoved and stabbed their way forward. The rear ranks put their shields over their heads in a tortoise fashion. Archers from the walls fired down, but all they hit were leather-wrapped wood. The uruks in front of the legions threw themselves at the Arnorians but couldn't stop the advance.

The levies were having a harder time getting up the ladders, but they eventually captured a few of the joints and were attempting to storm the second inner wall. The legions broke through their defenders and entered the city.

With a discipline that surprised the princes, even Elagor, the legions kept to the plan and turned away from the easy spoils of the city to storm up the stairs to the inner wall. This left the breaches empty. Elagor then set the Rohirrim, the Rhovanions, and the mercenaries loose on the city (as promised). The peasant levies and the legionnaires then joined them in the sack after the walls were secured.

Tinsereg understood that part of the justification for the brutality of modern warfare was preventative in nature. Everything that had anything to do with a sack was meant to drive one point unequivocally home, without any possible chance of misconception, to the people of a besieged city. That point is: do not force the attacker to go through that breach; surrender and survive. By forcing the attacker to spend the time and money to lay a siege, construct special weapons, hire and pay an army, break down the wall, not to mention the cost of the lives of men in the process of taking it, the denizens of the besieged city sacrifice all recourse to the harp strings of mercy and pity.

No quarter will be given to anyone: man, woman, or child. Babes at the breast will be beaten against the wall, girls from the age of thirteen to fifty will be raped, beaten, and possibly killed. The men: old, young, and all ages in between will be slaughtered. Every dwelling from the most splendid palace to the lowliest hovel will be pillaged, ransacked, and burnt down. Every valuable within the city will be taken, destroyed, or burnt.

This is what happened to the city of Rómendacilbar, the Jewel of the East, on the afternoon of December 2, 301 FA.

The attackers then turned on each other in the free-for-all for the spoils. No loyalties existed, Arnorian fought Arnorian, fought Rohirrim, fought Rhovanion. Legionnaire fought legionnaire, fought levy, fought knight, fought mounted lancer, fought Rider, fought everyone. Grasping hands at contested treasure were severed. The men, lost in their lust, greed, and passion, contested all.

Tinsereg watched in horror from the ridge, refusing to enter into the fray. Only after three days and the first good snow were the fires of Rómendacilbar finally quenched.

The Easterlings had already had their share and carted off most of the spoil from the poorer areas. They lacked the capability to pillage the gold and gems from the domes and high up on the walls of the Valar Temples, but the legionnaires did. Most the spoils the Easterlings carted off were recovered in the captured wains. However, they didn't take much, probably saving room for the spoils they were to win deeper in Gondor. The orcs didn't pillage, they just destroyed and terrorized the survivors of the first sack. Therefore, much of the riches of the Jewel of the East were still there for the Arnorians and Rohirrim, and they took everything.

It was only that night on the third day when discipline was finally restored in the snow. The brothers, Prince Éohelm, and the Arnorian lords divided up their cut of the spoil.

That night Elagor stood at the shore looking down one of the broken thoroughfares to the Palace of Rómendacilbar, a mere one hundred and fifty meters away. His mind was alive with strategies at liberating the Palace. Pelatur walked up to him. "How goes it, brother King," he asked, drunk and merry.

Elagor just grunted.

"You should be smiling, celebrating your great victory."

"That's not my humor at the moment," said Elagor. "When my victory is complete I'll hold a great feast."

"How do you think we ought best to proceed?"

"Rebuild one of the causeways," answered Elagor. "Seize any boats we can find and lay siege to the Palace before the water freezes."

"You mean to have the Palace before the winter? Why not just starve them out?" Pelatur shivered. "It's too cold."

"Because every moment they tarry on my land insults me."

"I'll go order the men for the night, then," Pelatur said as he left his brother.

In the next morning the repairs to the causeways began. The Easterlings trapped in the Palace could only look on helplessly as the legionnaires did their work repairing the causeways, inching closer and closer. Then when they got within archery range the Easterlings tried to harass the legionnaires as they worked, to little effect.

The Arnorians captured many boats still afloat in the quays and used them to lay siege to the Palace. By the end of the month, the thoroughfare was rebuilt and a battering ram brought to bear on the gate to the Palace. A cow-skin covered tent provided shelter to the legionnaires from arrows and fire as they did their work breaking the door down.

When it was finally breached the legionnaires were in for a surprise.

A new rectangular wall was constructed by the Easterlings inside the gate that trapped the legionnaires trying to enter the Palace, making them easy targets for the archers along the walls. Eventually they were forced to retreat. Elagor was incensed.

He ordered a ramp built up the causeway to the top of the wall. It was snowing heavily and the water was frozen when the legionnaires stormed up the ramp and into the Palace. Everyone within the Palace: Easterling, Rhovanion, and Gondorian were massacred.

Elagor himself found the General of the Easterling forces within the city in the Governor's Mansion. After a fierce fight in the main hall, Elagor near cut the General in half. Looking up, he finally noticed the red flag with a black tree on it hanging behind the Governor's Seat. He ordered it torn down and burnt.

When it was all done, his brothers, his sons, Prince Éohelm, the Arnorian lords, and the Rhovanion Princes were called into the Mansion for a Court gathering. They found the High King sitting in the Governor's Seat, the body of the Easterling General at his feet.

"Rómenondor is liberated, brother," he said to Pelatur. "Your Seat is now returned to you."

When all present knelt to him, Elagor turned the Seat over to Pelatur and took his place to his brother's right. The first Court meeting between the allies, however, quickly turned into a bitter argument.

"That was not our arrangement," Prince Éohelm shouted.

Elagor retorted even louder. "You swore to follow me in all pursuits! Now I command you to Minas Anor with my host!"

"You have no right to command a son of another sovereign kingdom!"

The General from Dale joined in the fight. "We served you to defend the lands of your kingdom, not to replace one High King with another."

"Your loyalty is to me," Elagor said with death in his voice. "Your armies you gave unto me to move under my will."

"The War in the East is won," the General of Dale said, remaining firm against Elagor's fury. "If we are to follow you to Gondor, what will become of our people if the Easterlings return?"

"They will not return."

"How do you know that," Prince Éohelm defended the General. "Who knows how many Easterlings and Wainriders escaped beyond the Rómenram?"

"If any at all," Lord Redbarad sided with his liege.

"If they descend upon our lands again while we are with you, High King, our people will be defenseless," the General repeated.

"Does the High King care not about the fate of his allies," asked Prince Éohelm indignantly, risking the ruin of Rohan.

"The Oath of Eorl you swore to me! Obey or be destroyed!"

"The Oath was given not from a lesser to a superior," Éohelm argued, "but between equals."

"That was during the weakness of Gondor," Elagor irately responded. "I am the High King _of the West_. You will acknowledge our superiority!"

"Or you will do what," Éohelm challenged. "Rohan is its own sovereign kingdom; you have no authority over us."

"If you will not respect my authority over _this_ army and _this_ campaign then I will hold you in contempt and you and all your men will not leave this city alive."

Tinsereg stood in horror at his brother. _That was no idle threat_, he knew. _Elagor means it._ This was not what he desired in turning his brother to the East. At this rate he would be years here, conquering all of Rhovanion before setting back to Minas Anor. Or he will gain the entire East at such a cost it will be years nursing his strength enough to challenge the High Lords of Gondor.

Prince Éohelm's hand went nearer his sword hilt, and the General of Dale rested his arm on the scabbard he had tucked into his belt across his back.

"Surely there is some compromise that can be reached here," Pelatur said, trying to assert some control.

The Court meeting was adjourned to the relief and displeasure of all. Nothing had been agreed or settled. Tinsereg left and entered the Valar Temple in the Palace. It was the largest Temple east of the Anduin. The dome was a hundred meters above him and lit indirectly which gave it a majestic glow off the frescos and gold work. Outside, four pillars at the cardinal directions rose at the corners of the main building.

He walked up to the main shrine that rose up the whole western wall with statues, wood carvings, gold lining, and the etchings of prayers. Tinsereg knelt in front of it. He felt the weight of his sins fall upon him. All the people he'd killed during his lordship, the spoils taken in brutal wars he'd waged, the deceptions and betrayals necessary remain in power and now, most recently, needed to keep his brother Elagor in the East. He'd married an alien woman of low birth and begot a son from her, named him legitimate and his heir, denied his father's will, and participated in heathen rituals.

Looking up he could see the light entering the dome. He felt it envelope him in a majestic aura that filled him with joy. But he also felt the stain of his sin as black splotches within his being. Every time he entered a Temple he felt that his stain had grown, consuming more and more of his core. It was a disturbing and saddening pattern that kept him away from Temples except during extreme situations. He knew his wrongs were lesser compared to Esgaler's and Mithrim's, yet that was little comfort. Tinsereg needed redemption as badly as the dying Theaulflan knight who'd begged it from him.

His prayer was silent, his prayer was heartfelt, his prayer remained unanswered.

High King Elagor burst into the Temple. "Sereg! Traitor!"

Tinsereg leapt to his feat. The Imperial Family came in behind Elagor, who was charging down on him, nostrils flared, teeth clenched, and eyes terrible. "You bastard!"

Elagor drew Nár and whipped it down upon Tinsereg. The Black Prince of Harondor barely drew his sword in time to deflect the blow.

"What is going on here," Tinsereg asked frantically.

"You knew!" Elagor accused as he slashed at him again, cutting his cheek slightly.

"Knew what?"

Elagor stopped, stepped back, and jabbed his finger towards Tinsereg. "You knew about the marriage! Our sister to that..." Words failed him.

Tinsereg's eyes went wide. _How did he find out about Aldanna and Mithrim?_ Elagor brought Nár to bear on him again. Tinsereg blocked and parried his brother's strong but wild strokes. Elagor was enraged, shouting curses and insults as he hacked and swiped at his brother. Tinsereg refused to attack his brother and danced around Elagor as best he could, but the King's fury didn't tire. Finally Elagor got a punch in that broke a few of Tinsereg's ribs. Elagor then hammered him down to his knees.

Unable to lift his sword to defend himself, Tinsereg could just look up through the pain cloud and watch the final blow. The pain on his right side was near intolerable.

Elagor raised the sword above his head.

"Father that's enough," Crown Prince Turgor stepped forward.

Elagor spun around and bore down upon his son. "Don't _you_ now dare tell me how I am to rule!"

He lifted his sword again brought it down upon Turgor. The Crown Prince, however, wasn't as nimble or quick as his uncle. Elagor's sword slashed into his son's shoulder. Crown Prince Turgor fell in a limp heap of bone and flesh.

The whole world seemed to stop in shocked stillness. For the longest time, nobody moved. All the noise of the world was quieted, as though all thoughts and spirits were focused in on this room. All that concentrated, tortured energy reached a critical emotional mass and, in that moment, the earth trembled and the heavens shuddered.

Nár rattled hollow on the tiled floor as Elagor fell to his knees and picked up the lifeless, languid body of his son. He brought his son's head to his chest as he stared out blankly, blinded by horror and tears.

---


	18. Chapter 16: Esgaler's War

"Lord Túrin, I am pleased to report that the Prince of Ithilien, Steward Heremir, was successful in obtaining the submission of the lords of the western fiefs. General Fuinur has begun his campaign against the rebel Rohirrim. I have every confidence the mission will be successful.

"Therefore, we can move the Court to other pressing matters. The legions sent to capture Hyarmentur were offered no resistance. We have little information on the movements of the Black Woman and that troubles me. I want you to keep and eye on Lord Ostoher of Pelargir, his petulance over this issue could become divisive.

"Another matter of potential problems are the new mill taxes just put into effect. The millers and villiens might rise in protest of these new measures to maintain the army at the necessary strength to fight the Usurper. These must be pacified with the utmost expediency when they arise to ensure stability. I trust I can count on your backing and organization in dealing with these matters.

(signed)

Queen Mother Esgaler"

---

---

Three weeks into the campaign and General Fuinur was already feeling the relentless pressure of time. He needed to subdue the Rohirrim in time to make a secure winter camp. Edoras would be preferable. The Eorlingas were notorious amongst their enemies for daring wintertime raids.

Steward Heremir had done his job exceptionally well. Politics and intrigue bored the General to tears. He busied himself out in the courtyards of the castles and keeps they visited, rallying and training the peasantry while the Steward did his work.

They entered the Druwaith-Iaur a month after they first set out from Minas Anor with a hundred thousand peasant levies and ten thousand knights and mounted lancers under his command.

The people here had largely answered Elagor's summons. General Fuinur, therefore, decided to teach them a lesson.

He drove the people before him and burnt the villages, but he didn't pursue them very far because he distrusted the levies not to desert at the first opportunity.

Snow had begun to fall and cover the grasslands. The powdery ice covered stiff stalks of prairie grass standing up out of the snow carpet. The above-snow halves swayed weightedly in the blowing wind.

General Fuinur covered himself in fox fir from head to toe. The cold made it impossible to wear his plate armor so mail over boiled leather had to suffice. He wasn't happy. Fuinur hated cold and snow even more. Winter campaigns were hell.

He moved into Adorn and then across the River Isen, burning and pillaging as he went. The peasants must have been warned because the scattered villages were all deserted. They'd taken a lot of their stuff with them as well. In nearly every croft and hut there were holes dug out of the dirt floor where the peasants saved all their earnings. There were scraps of dropped gold coins and scattered heirlooms. Nothing of great worth however, making General Fuinur even less happy. This army had been put together on the promise of spoils.

At Isenguard the commander yielded to Fuinur's demands, and because he'd also yielded to the Usurper Elagor he paid for it with his life. The remaining garrison was decimated. Every tenth man was chosen to be beaten to death by his nine comrades in order to reimpose discipline and make sure they all knew exactly who was in charge. The General then moved on in a large arc through the Kingdom of the Mark of Rohan.

Edoras was emptied, but the doors were barred to them. That's when the Rohirrim made their move. Trapped between the walls of Edoras and the White Mountains, several thousand Riders attacked from the front and the rear.

The fight between the Riders and the Gondorian cavalry was the most bitterly contested battle General Fuinur had ever seen. The Riders also spread much death throughout the levies. In the end, however, the Gondorians held the field and the Rohirrim retreated.

The city of Edoras now caught his angered eye. "I want that city burnt to the ground," he shouted. Unfortunately, with all the snow, none of the torches would take and a blaze never developed. Further irritated, General Fuinur pressed on.

From a captured Rider they learnt that King Éodred had died in his sleep a few weeks before. With Crown Prince Éohelm absent in the East, a struggle for succession amongst his cousins insued, hindering the Riders' response to his army. It was the Marshals of the Marks that held true authority in the Kingdom of Rohan. Rohan was now effectively five feuding sub-kingdoms with several royal cousins massing bandit armies that further dividing the Eorlingas.

This was encouraging to General Fuinur, who smiled for the first time in a week. At his camp outside Edoras, Fuinur laid out his strategy to the Lords of the western fiefs.

The long and short of it would be to invade each Mark in succession to further divide and then conquer the feuding Eorlingas. He expected a few of the Marshals would submit and bend the knee to Minas Anor if his campaign was brutal enough. The cousins commanded roving bands of Riders that could be dealt with whenever they encountered them. Scouts reported that many Rohirrim were hiding behind the walls of Helm's Deep, waiting for the chaos to end. General Fuinur decided that a crushing, demoralizing blow would be an appropriate opening. The West Mark would be the first attacked.

"I want those walls broken or the people starved before we move back east and back to the White City before the Usurper arrives in the spring," he said.

"Just what is Elagor the Usurper of," asked one of the Lords aloud.

General Fuinur's reproach lasted ten minutes.

---

Camped outside Helm's Deep, General Fuinur surveyed the old fortress nested in a cleft in the mountains. New stones marked the breach made by Saruman during the War of the Ring three hundred years ago. Other than that, the fortress remained the same as it always had been.

A statue of King Théoden striding his horse stood between the mounds of the dead Riders from the long ago siege. Bones of the dead orcs still littered the ground. The white bones were difficult to see in the white snow and they caused many a hurt ankle and made lame several horses.

General Fuinur taunted the Rohirrim behind the walls of Helm's Deep by starting each day striking the legs of Théoden's horse with his sword until they finally broke and the statue of Rohan's most recent national hero tumbled to the ground.

He made feint attacks to allow fire archers close enough to attempt to light their stores on fire in order to starve them out before the snows melted. However, not knowing where the stores were actually located rendered this strategy useless. General Fuinur then began bringing one captive near the wall where everyone could see, but beyond bowshot.

"Surrender now or his life is forfeit," the General would call out. When he got no response General Fuinur cut the captive's throat with his dirk and left the body in full view. This repeated itself for a week and a half.

Then, one morning, the Rohirrim woke up just like they had any other day. Supplies were running low and many infants had frozen to death already, or starved when their mothers stopped lactating from stress and malnutrition. Last night was no worse than any other. They ate their bleak breakfast before walking up to the parapet to survey the siege and see who would be the Gondorian's next victim.

What they saw shocked them.

Looking out onto the plain before them they found the Gondorian army had vanished. In their place was a single man propped up like a scarecrow in front of the fallen statue. Red soaked snow sprawled out beneath it.

At first they believed it was a trap and refused to investigate. Two days later a few brave souls came down the causeway and approached the snow covered macabre figure.

General Fuinur was tied to the cross. His ankles were slashed and he'd bled to death slowly. There was a sign hanging from his neck. A Rider brushed the snow off and read: THE OATH OF EORL STILL HAS ITS ADMIRERS IN THE REUNITED KINGDOM.

---


	19. Chapter 17: The Road South

"Upon my coronation the duties and responsibilities of the Prince of Umbar, Lord of the Haven, High Captain of the Arsenal, Guardian of the Southern Scepter of Bar-en-Umbar, and South Shield of Gondor is to be reinstated to my brother, Prince Tinsereg, for his faithful service during the War in the East.

"The duties and responsibilities of the Lord Governorship of Rómenondor, Guardian of the Eastern Scepter of Rómendacilbar, and Eastern Shield of Gondor is to be returned to my brother, Prince Pelatur, for his faithful service in the War in the East.

"The Lordship of Arnor, Guardian of the Northern Scepter of Annúminas, and Northern Shield of Gondor is to be bestowed upon my son, Prince Barahir, who is now to be Crown Prince and undisputed Heir of the Reunited Kingdom. Through his, and only his, descendants the Sons of Elessar will rule in unbroken dynasty.

"Queen Mother Esgaler and her progeny Mithrim, the Usurper, are disinherited from the Imperial Line of Elendil and are striped of all offices and titles currently held and unlawfully seized. All decrees and pronouncements made during their illegitimate tenure are hereby declared null and void. They are fugitives of the Reunited Kingdom and are sentenced to death on the order of White Throne of the High Kings of the Reunited Kingdom. Any services given unto them, direct or indirect, willing or coerced, are to be considered high treason.

"With this, I order my realm. Ilúvatar be merciful.

(signed)

High King Elagor I of the West"

---

---

Tinsereg was loaded gingerly onto a cart for the journey. Elagor was taking the road south, behind Mordor to the east. After he defeats Khand, Elagor intended to link up with Tinsereg's Harondor army and then move north to Minas Anor.

The Palace of Rómendacilbar had its own House of Healing, but all the women had been killed. Tinsereg was tended to instead by a _Periannath_ named Ibbet Wheelbarrow. "Just call me Hobbit," he would say though.

Thanks to Curucam and Hobbit's efforts, Tinsereg survived the winter. Four of his ribs had been broken by Elagor's blow, and he had lost a lot of weight. The bones had to be expertly reset and bandaged to keep them in place. However, the wound also had become terribly infected. A special concoction of stored herbs was administered daily to treat the infection.

Tinsereg also suffered a very high fever. He was taken to an outer room where the winter chill could cool his raging body. Finally Curucam and Hobbit were forced to cut the Prince's side and let the bad blood drain, and both didn't like the pus that came out when they pressed the cut. Maggots were brought in to eat away the dead tissue after Tinsereg's side was cleansed.

The good news was it seemed like his lung wasn't pierced and deflated, and the herbs kept the infection from spreading.

Éohelm stopped in before he left. "If only your brothers were more like you," he commented to a fevered Tinsereg.

Pelatur visited a few times, but never all that frequently. Elagor, though, came and sat by his brother's side whenever he could. Whether mostly out of guilt or concern he wouldn't speak, just sit there and watch. He'd had a coronet made for him by a surviving goldsmith, and wore it constantly. Eventually, at about the middle of February, Elagor and Tinsereg renewed their conversations. They spoke of many things, told stories and made plans, and discussed several other subjects, some happy and sad, strange and funny, past, present, and future.

"I hear you had some troubles in Harondor," he said. "Someone sent some raiders to take care of you."

"Yes."

"What happened to that horse that you raced home?"

"It died," Tinsereg answered after a pause. "Its heart exploded from the effort."

Elagor shook his head. "What loyalty beasts have to men. If only there were more Men were like horses, this would be a much better world."

Tinsereg couldn't disagree more, but decided to be polite. "Perhaps."

"Will you still support me, brother," asked Elagor.

Tinsereg knew a lot was riding on his answer. It was important to Elagor to hear that he still saw King Elaldar's eldest son fit to sit the Throne from Tinsereg, and that he understood and even sympathized with. What he didn't like was that Elagor had not questioned his own standing. "Do you still consider yourself worthy for the Throne," Tinsereg counter-asked.

"I am my father's heir," Elagor responded. "My cause is made just and right by the grace of Ilúvatar. Without me there will be pestilence and war, banditry and famine in the West. You cannot argue with that."

"No, I can't," Sereg said, saving his neck. "You have my sword," he swore, and with some effort kissed Elagor's signet ring.

---

By the time the snows melted and the trees began to bloom once more, Tinsereg was finally out of danger. Now he needed to nurture his strength. "I feel like an old man," Tinsereg jested.

"You are old," Hobbit returned. "Haven't you noticed your gray?"

Tinsereg's face suddenly was the picture of dread. "I have gray hair?"

"No," Hobbit said and then laughed as hard he could.

"I'd like to see you shrivel up to the size of an infant when you are aged."

Tinsereg was feeling much better now; mostly because with his recent hair cut and shave he was finally feeling clean again. Unlike his brothers, Tinsereg had always worn his hair short and combed forward with a clean shaven face.

Supplies were readied, the troops set in line, and officers given their instruction. The winter had been a productive one. The Rhovanion princes were given responsibility of holding the East, garrisoning Rómendacilbar and manning the Rómenram. Crown Prince Éohelm got word of the troubles in Rohan and was speeding west across Rómenondor with Elagor's blessing to claim his crown and order his realm. The price was Éohelm's reaffirmation that Elagor was the true High King and promise to aid him in his fight against Minas Anor. This deal was largely put together by Pelatur and made possible by Elagor's grief over his son.

"We should be reaching the Rómenram soon," Hobbit said. "My Aunt Charlotte will never believe such things actually exist."

"In truth," Tinsereg said quietly. "I've never seen it myself."

"Well, we'll just have to do something about that then."

Tinsereg smiled from beneath the blankets.

Curucam had his duties with the Arnorian knights. It was just Hobbit and him in the covered cart, but Tinsereg half wished he was elsewhere. It swayed violently back and forth in the ruts along the road and Tinsereg desperately wished to be back on his horse and in the light of the sun. He'd been on his back for three months and was feeling very weak. His fever broke only a few weeks ago and many believed that he should've been dead.   
Hobbit filled Tinsereg with stories from the Shire about his own childhood, his children, cousins, and friends. He had a story for every occasion, insight, and situation. It was amazing. It seemed that from everything that happened in his life, joyous or sad, Hobbit had a humorous story to tell about it.

"The Shire must be a paradise on Middle-earth," Tinsereg said. "If all sadness' have smiles behind the tears."

That made Hobbit laugh. "Truth be told, I'd reckon things aren't always sunny as they may seem. But that's my humor." He shrugged. "I don't despair the storm cloud for the sunflower grows from its rain."

When the time came to pass through the breach in the Rómenram, Hobbit propped Tinsereg up and opened the rear flap. The wall stood twenty feet off the ground and fifteen wide. Rhovanion footmen patrolled the wall as Elagor's massive van went by. Standing atop the wall their shields and spear points glinting in the sun.

The breach was huge. After an initial gate had been broken down, the Easterlings and Wainriders had painstakingly taken apart the gate castle brick by brick until the opening spanned thirty meters. Elagor passed through without incident. That night there was a final feast with the Rhovanion General from Dale.

East of Mordor the air was dry and dusty. The wind was out of the east and carried no moisture with it. Looking out into the Wilderness all one could see was unbroken yellow savanna. Not even a hill rose above the flat plain, it just stretched out forever.

"Can't believe people live in such a wasteland," commented Hobbit.

"It's what makes them swift and strong," answered Tinsereg. "And so willing to attack West."

Later that day Tinsereg got an unexpected visitor. Arfëa came into his cart.

"Pleasure to meet you, Princess," Hobbit greeted her.

"How is he," she asked.

"As fine as can be expected, m'lady."

"Sorry I can't rise to great you," Tinsereg apologized.

"Oh, that's all right, really. I brought some water thinking it might help."

"Well, most certainly. Any aid gently given should be gently received." Hobbit took the water glass from Arfëa. "Thank you, m'lady."

"Hobbit." Tinsereg's tone gently asked the Halfling to leave.

"Well, I shall take my leave." Hobbit opened the flap. "I hear my fellows have a spirited riddle game ongoing to see who'll get the last barrel of Red Dragon lager." With that he giggled and hopped down to the ground.

"Are you in much pain," Arfëa asked.

"Not too terribly," Tinsereg answered. "This was the worst winter of my life," he and Arfëa shared a nervous laugh. "But I feel I shall make a strong recovery now. My eminent physician says that I could start walking and ride my horse tomorrow. The bones have set, the fever is gone, now all that remains is to build my strength back up."

"Good… good." Arfëa paused, as if hesitating to say what she'd resolved herself to say. "Is your wound healing well?"

"Yes, mostly," Tinsereg responded. "I assume my wound is not something you wish to see."

"No, no," Arfëa shook her head. Then finally, "I've been told... that I can trust you with anything."

_Now this is important_, Tinsereg realized. "Of course, please, go on. You have nothing to fear from me."

"Here's your water," Arfëa stalled. "It is flavored with lemon. I… I heard it was your favorite."

"Thank you," Tinsereg decided to be patient. He sipped the lemon water.

When he was half done, Arfëa finally spit out, "My husband betrayed your knowledge of Aldanna and Mithrim's marriage to the High King."

His reaction surprised Arfëa. He just soundlessly laughed. "I know."

Arfëa teared up. "Over Prince Turgor's grave I heard him mutter 'two down.'"

That was a very serious accusation. Tinsereg had no doubt this was the truth; yet knowing something and hearing it confirmed were two separate things. He gestured for her to come closer and they embraced. "He learnt it from one of the Rohirrim captains. Pelatur means to be High King himself."

"I'm so sorry." Tinsereg didn't know how long the guilt that had lead up to this confession had been working itself on her, but he could only guess that it had been a while. Nor did he know what other memories weighed down upon her.

Arfëa was a flower of one of the most puissant and noble Houses amongst the Dúnedain. What secrets she had been born into behind the walls of Dol Amroth and then married into within Rómendacilbar must have been crushing indeed to reduce one of the Dúnedain, a Númenorean Exile, to such a state.

When all the tears to be shed had been, Arfëa looked straight into Tinsereg. "What can be done?"

Tinsereg answered bluntly. "Nothing." Pelatur's ambitions were not to be checked by either of them. "Anything we do will just create more problems. Especially now."

"Pelatur has grown deep in the King's councils."

"My brother also trusts in me as well."

"Then what am I to hope for?"

"That when the time comes your husband finds Elagor's mercy," answered Tinsereg. Plots and suspicions between husband and wife was not a game Tinsereg cared to play with his brother's marriage, and felt it necessary not to lead her down that path. _Too much trouble, too much drama_. Still, she needed some encouragement. "That through you, hopefully, Pelatur will be able to find peace in modest stillness and humility. No matter what though, I will help you as I can."

She kissed him to thank him. In that moment, there was a certain passing folly between them. It was a dangerous temptation that led down a dark road. Both were too shy and troubled by it to give the feeling sway and Arfëa silently took her awkward leave.

She rejoined Celebras in large wagon made especially for the wives of the Princes.

"Did you talk to Tinsereg," asked Celebras.

"Yes," Arfëa answered. "He is well."

"Does he know of your husband?"

"Yes."

"Good." Celebras took a sip of her tea. "You feel better now?"

"Yes, much, Your Grace."

"You see? I told you it would help. That man has an iron will to live and a good head on his shoulders—all the brothers do—that's what probably kept him alive all this time."

The High Queen offered her sister-in-law some tea after admonishing herself for lack of manners. Arfëa gladly accepted. "Normally I'd have suggested you speak to your son, Artur, but from what I've observed the boy has an empty head. Certainly he didn't get it from you, my dear." Celebras then became reflective. "Turgor was ever his father's son, always too embarrassed to speak with me. But Barahir, now with him I made sure he knew to tell his mother everything. Whenever you want to know anything about your husband, your sons are the best source. At least that's what I say—as long they know to always respect their mother. Sometimes I feel like the only reason Elagor remains in command. My, the things I've had to do keeping his back safe and his House ordered."

"Pelatur doesn't allow me anything," Arfëa confessed. "He seems angered even with the slightest contact I have with my own son."

"He probably wants him to be a warrior," Celebras hypothesized with a wry smile. "Probably wants him just like himself. Well, how did Pelatur become who he was? Certainly his mother had something to do with it; even with that one." She laughed. "That's the problem with us in war," Celebras continued. "We're excess baggage. Nothing to do but look pretty and be waiting for our husbands when they return at night, if they come at all."

"It hasn't been all bad."

"No," the High Queen agreed. "But I feel the need to do something, to help in some way."

"You organized the care for many within the baggage train," Arfëa pointed out.  
Celebras chuckled. "I organized the wounded and the whores. I can't stand either of them. The hospital tents are dreadful places and I can't abide the smell of blood. Seeing all those young men with missing limbs and bandages just makes me feel sick inside—I can't look at them. And those women, one would think they've never heard of decency and feminine modesty. Still, someone has to look out for them, I guess."

"You've made yourself very useful and done a lot of good."

"And you, by contrast, have done nothing?"

"I feel so left out."

"Oh fie, fie, don't feel that way," Celebras said. "Find something. Help that poor Tinsereg if you wish."

"My husband won't like it," Arfëa responded, hoping she wasn't blushing.

"What is he going to do that cannot be done onto him in return? Nothing if I can help it. One word whispered to my husband and Pelatur will never harm you again."

"But Elagor no longer stays with you at night."

"No," Celebras lamented. "No he does not. He's still in grief. I don't think he wants to see any family; too painful my son thinks it is. To look at him now you'd think he'd aged ten years over this past winter. No. Barahir told me how he sleeps with all those women, and then beats them for the shame of it. At least it's not me he's working his troubles out on. At least that's one decent service the whores offer." She smiled. "Well, he'll come back to me. He will. And when he does, he'll find the best High Queen imaginable." Celebras finished her tea in one gulp.

Arfëa couldn't take her gaze off the woman; she was so noble, so strong, so confident. Like an ancient Ruling Queen of Númenor she sat there with perfect poise and dignity. Nothing would phase her, not her husband, nor war, nor politics. She was a lioness within a swan.

---

It took a week to travel the width of Mordor. Arfëa watched as Tinsereg took his first steps in months and began the long process of recuperation. He practiced his swordsmanship and got his body used to breathing deeply again. Soon the pain in his chest dissipated to be replaced by the ache of joints and long under-used muscles.

Pelatur noticed the special interest his wife was taking in his younger brother and decided to do something about it. He called her into his tent one night. "How is my brother?" he asked, busying himself with some papers.

"He is well."

"His side completely healed?"

"He is well, m'lord."

"Good." Then, after a thoughtful dramatic pause. "Has he told you anything?"

Arfëa didn't know how to interpret her husband's question. "Concerning what?"

"Concerning me, our eldest brother, this whole conflict we're moving towards, anything."

"He has bent his mind towards his own recovery, m'lord."

"Well, that sounds proper," Pelatur said. "I know this is a lot to ask but... find out what Sereg feels about this whole endeavor and report back to me about it."

"Is there some purpose in this, m'lord?"

Pelatur smiled and then got up to hold his wife tenderly by her arms. "Do this for me, if you are to spend your time with him."

"I would gladly spend my time with you but you are always at the head of the column where I am not welcome."

"I have important business to attend to," Pelatur responded immediately, but not unkindly. "I cannot have you in the midst of war preparations. It isn't proper." He sighed deeply. "I need to know my brother's mind if I am to properly account for him in these matters. This is a struggle within the Family after all. To that end... I give you permission to use any means you can to obtain this information."

Arfëa couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Pel, I—"

"Arfëa," Pelatur now moved his hands to massage her neck and cheeks. "Beloved, I need you for this. My younger brother only lets a few people get close to him, and you are one of them. There is nobody else I can call on. I know it is hard, but I need you." He kissed her tenderly. "Soon all our efforts will be rewarded in full and the whole of the world will be at our feet. Will you not help me?"

Arfëa decided then that she needed to get away from her husband. If this was a beginning to that end she could get away with, then that was how it would have to be. "Of course, Pel."

Pelatur smiled and kissed her again. "That's my girl," he said. "Now run along, there are matters I must discuss with the High King now." Arfëa left.

For Pelatur's part, he felt it necessary to make his wife accomplice to his plans if he was ever to truly have her loyalty to him. She was already passive and submissive, but in her heart was rebellion and that he couldn't allow. For now he'd have to use that latent fire towards his own purposes before finally extinguishing it sometime later. He silently cursed himself for letting his wife escape him right under his nose.

---

A day north of Khand the Arnorian army came across a delegation of the Peoples of the Núrnen. The paleness of their gaunt skin from centuries of darkness made them seem more wraith than man. They were the native peoples of Mordor and until recently the slaves of Sauron whose suffering labors had fed and shod his orc warriors. Now they turned their talents towards their own people under the protection of the High Kings of the West.

They told Elagor of "Tall Men" that came from the Far East with words and weapons for use against Gondor. These emissaries were chased off, and such was the hurry of their flight that they left behind many of their possessions. "We sent messengers to Minas Anor with a sample of our captured goods, but we got no response. Are you here from the White City?"

Elagor didn't want to explain the succession war he was currently involved in, but did say that he had recently defeated the Easterlings and Wainriders and was now heading south to face Khand and the Haradrim. This seemed pleasing to the Núrnen delegation who'd suffered greatly under raids from Khand.

Tinsereg asked if any flags of these new "Tall Men" had been captured along with swords and armor, amongst other thing. The delegation produced a red flag with a black tree on it. _So that's were it came from_, Tinsereg realized.

"What are you thinking, brother," Elagor asked.

"I'm just wondering were these new Men came from," responded Tinsereg. "It's obvious they mean to be the antithesis of Gondor. How far south and east did Sauron's influence spread?"

"By what name did these new Men call themselves," Elagor asked the Núrnen.

"Hildorean."

"The land of the Awakening of Men," Pelatur muttered.

"That is about as far east as one could travel," Elagor said.

"Elendil did bring with him charts and maps of the Greater Seas," said Tinsereg. "Umbar was under Enemy control for long enough to send a force to colonize or conquer many far away lands."

"And he had many Black Númenoreans under his sway who knew the Seas very well," said Pelatur.

"I know not of any Númenorean colonies beyond the Western Shores," said Elagor. "And Sauron was too busy fighting us to have the resources to launch an extensive expedition."

"There were many long years in the beginning of the Second Age when the Númenoreans didn't challenge Sauron at all," Tinsereg pointed out.

"Much was lost in the Downfall as well," Pelatur added. "Knowledge of other colonies and trading posts could have been forgotten."

"But wouldn't they have tried to return to their brethren eventually," asked Elagor.

"Or they settled down to make what life they could where they were," suggested Tinsereg.

"And were conquered or converted by emissaries from Sauron," added Pelatur.

"Either way," Elagor weighed in. "The strength of these Hildoreans must be assessed. So far they appear to have only used the Reunited Kingdom's traditional enemies as proxies, suggesting they are few in number, if this is not merely a first wave."

"I'll spread the word throughout the van," Tinsereg said.

Elagor gave him a look that said, _and just what good will that serve_? "You're not going to run away, are you?" he joked.

"Use these Hildoreans to steal the men's resolve behind you," explained Tinsereg. "Give them yet another reason to have you on the throne."

Elagor seemed to accept this, and Tinsereg rode back through the van.

_They should be resolved to just see the rightful High King on the throne_, Elagor thought. _That is their duty, and it should be enough_.

---

The Arnorian column approached the northern frontiers of Khand. It was a hilly region just off the eastern end of the Mountains of Shadow. Conifers grew thick along the mountainsides and the valleys were dominated by brown grasses. It was a yellow, rugged land.

Many small rivers flowed through Khand that supported large numbers of people in the northern areas. To the south dense jungles grew from the torrential rainstorms that came from the Inner Seas. This was where Khand's oliphaunts came from. In the west, the ground plateaued and dried out. There the people were fed only by the Harnen River, and Tinsereg's Harondor army stubbornly held onto both shores. It was a hold that incessantly inflamed Khand to war.

Elagor's Núrnen guides lead them to a road that would take them through the country quickly, but refused to travel any farther. The High King thanked them and paid generously for their services.

There were several villages and towns along the way. They offered up minimal resistance. The Arnorian army, augmented by Pelatur's Rómenondor troops, was simply too overwhelming for the local garrisons and militias.

"Where's this army I've heard about," asked a petulant Elagor. He didn't like the idea of an enemy lurking around behind hills or in woods. He surveyed the surround, waiting for thousands of Khand's warriors to leap out and strike at him.

"I don't know," said Tinsereg.

The road wound through steep mountain passes. It was pebbly, rough, and narrow. Many knights and lancers dismounted to walk their horses two by two over the mountains and through the woods. Herds big and small of sheep and goats lined the way, and many began to wonder where their owners where.

Elagor sent out scouts along both his flanks and ahead.

"We're most vulnerable spread out along this road," said Pelatur. "If they attack now, they'll do great damage before we can respond. This is their land, they should know that."

Two days into Khand the forward scouts reported that they'd discovered a large encampment in the next valley. They couldn't get close enough to determine its composition but they knew it numbered near a hundred thousand and had several oliphaunts. Elagor had found the armies of Khand at last.

"One more thing," the scout finished. "They know we're coming."

Elagor warned his men of battle before proceeding. The next valley was wide and flat with the road running straight down the center of it. There were several farm fields awaiting the planting of this year's crop along the sides. The opposing army was already arrayed in formation to meet the Arnorians.

Elagor fanned his legions out to make a stable front from which to engage the enemy just inside the valley.

"Strange," said Lord Redbarad peering ahead.

"What," asked Elagor.  
"Their armor appears to be Gondorian in make."

The Arnorians approached their opponents with great caution. Many thoughts ran through Tinsereg's head about how Khand could have gotten ahold of Gondorian armor. Perhaps it was the armor brought by the Black Númenoreans from Hildor. Or, worst of all, they could have overrun Harondor in his absence and plundered the armor from his own troops.

Finally a delegation came forward from the opposing army.

"Look at the standard," Pelatur said.

In the middle of the oncoming formation their standard caught a breeze and unfurled. The field of it seemed to shift in color from black to scarlet and then back to black again. The sigil sown on it, however, was unmistakable: a white tree with a crown and seven stars above. To the right there was displayed a crescent moon and to the left a flowing river. It was the sign of Tinsereg's Harondor.

He had no doubt as to who led the delegation. Arientari on her proud Hyarmen mare road on ahead, but duty kept Tinsereg from rushing out towards her and behind his King. Luckily Elagor spurred his horse forward and the brothers followed in an embassy of their own.

"Well met High King of the West," Arientari greeted them. "Khand and Harondor await you."

In the Harondor party Tinsereg recognized Beren and Alquacam, as well as several high officers. But what gave the most joy to his heart was seeing his son, Iandil, again. He hadn't grown much since the last time, but his face had slimmed, maturing his looks.

Pelatur laughed. "Events move from strange to stranger."

"What happened here," Elagor asked grimly.

"It would serve no good purpose to have to fight through Khand before claiming your crown, Your Majesty," she answered. "We moved our army across the Harnen and harassed western Khand until they gave us battle. They were swiftly defeated. Harondor recognizes your overlordship and gives you Khand as a gift for your coronation."

With that, Elagor gave a hearty laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed since the Siege of Rómendacilbar. _I guess this indiginie wife of Sereg has her charms after all_, he thought. "I think I'm starting to like this wife of yours, brother!"

---

Elagor and his army stayed at Maeglad for a few days before continuing on. Tinsereg was tasked with guarding his rear and subduing Umbar so as not to leave a strong force behind him while crossing the River Poros. It left Tinsereg with some time to reacquaint himself with his family and recover more of his strength before the big fight at Minas Anor. He took the time to take care of some menial matters and then spent the rest of the day with son in the palace sports yard.

"It is a good thing they left so quickly," Arientari commented that night. "Otherwise I doubt there would be food enough in Harondor to feed them all for another day."

Tinsereg smiled. "We were hard pressed just to find lodging for the officers and centurions."

They both relaxed at the bath of Maeglad inside his palace. The water was pumped up into the bath by an Artesiandil Well and was warmed by a small furnace. Arientari was caressing the collapsed muscles of his right side. "When does your brother expect you to cross the Poros?"

"I have a month to recuperate and secure the South."

"A legion from Umbar marched on Hyarmentur," she reported. "I told the garrison there not to challenge them."

"Good."

Arientari had led the Harondor armies into Khand in order to keep them occupied from organizing a revolt against her. Beren had been furious at her for giving up Hyarmentur without a fight. In fact, she'd guessed correctly that he was just looking for an excuse to thrust her from power. Alquacam used all the force of his stubborn nature to keep the peace. Eventually Khand offered the perfect solution when it sent skirmishers against the fortifications on the eastern shore of the Harnen.

"Do you think it will be difficult to invade Umbar?" she asked.

"I don't think I'll have to," Tinsereg said. "Ever since I was removed from my command the generalship of the legions has been atrocious. I think the men will welcome me, if not then be receptive. But just in case, we'd better be prepared for a fight."

"Do you not trust your men?"

"I trust them to follow orders," answered Tinsereg. "That's their training, their discipline. Whose orders is the question." He sighed.

Arientari decided to change the subject. "Iandil was pleased he could practice his archery with you."

Tinsereg chuckled. "Probably more happy he could finally best his old man."

"He is very fond of his father," she said. "Despite the fact that he's not present much."

"I know." Tinsereg rubbed his face with his hands. "Unfortunately Harondor forces me to rule from my horse as much as from this palace. He should come with us when we go north. No matter what happens, it'll be a powerful lesson for him."

"Sometimes I think you two share the same soul."

"So do we," Tinsereg said, and kissed her cheek.

Arientari smiled. "I couldn't help but notice that Arfëa, Pelatur's wife, has taken a fondness towards you."

Tinsereg knew what she was getting at, but decided to ignore it. "The poor woman," he said. "She deserves better than Pelatur." He looked at her and then smiled. "What?"

"Don't play innocent with me."

"I am innocent," Tinsereg said firmly. "You know me better than all, do you believe I would do such a thing."

"That Easterling girl you brought with you?"

"She's a refugee, and in need," Tinsereg answered.

"I think she's a mute." Her look told him that she believed a silent mistress would be a very handy thing to have.

"She was given to me as a gift. If I turned her away she would've been killed for sure. I didn't want to see that happen. Regardless, she's in your care now. Do you believe I betrayed you?"

"Did you?"

"No."

"The knights under your brothers say different," Arientari accused.

"They say a lot of things," Tinsereg defended himself, "and know nothing."

"Yes, they do say a lot of things."

Tinsereg was tempted to ask what that meant, but thought against it. "This is insane. Have I ever taken a mistress while out on campaign?"

"You took me!"

"Well, don't sell yourself _that_ short!" The both retreated to their respective corners. "Whose knights did you hear that from?"

"The Prince Pelatur."

"Pelatur," he said knowingly. "Always it's been Pelatur. He's poison; does nothing but spread discord and distrust, playing with the weaknesses of others! He is a problem."

"Problems need to solved, less they become mistakes."

_Not again._ "Pel is not my problem to solve."

"Your brother's then?"

"Yes."

"He is a problem as well."

"And just what would you have me do?" Tinsereg let anger slip into his voice. "Everyone in my entire family seems to be a problem to you. Sometimes I think even I'm a problem."

"Yes, you are," she returned with the same tone. "When it comes to your family you are as meek as a puppy, always looking for appreciation. Well you're never going to get it, and it's about time you realized that!"

She got up to leave, but Tinsereg grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back down onto her seat in the water. His ice blue eyes bore into her with the same shocking intensity that she had seen cower knights, lords, and bandit chieftains. To her credit, she held firm. "Never deride _our_ family like that again." _Now I'm starting to sound like father_, the voice in the back of Tinsereg's head said. "You are my wife," he continued. "Will you stand by my side through whatever I have to do to save this Kingdom, or will you continue goading me into helping destroy an enemy of your people for generations?"

"My people? So is that what you're getting at? Am I a traitor now too?"

"No, never a traitor."

"Yes, a traitor!"

"No!"

"You don't trust me!"

"I trust you!" Tinsereg shouted back.

"You don't trust anyone!"

"No," he admitted. "No I don't. Not even myself."

"Well, thank you for letting me know my true place in your heart." There were tears in her eyes. "Very illuminating. You _do_ think me a traitor. For trying to get you to demand the respect you deserve. For trying to make you see that all those lords and ladies of Gondor will never give it to you. For trying to convince you that you are better off without them. Yes, that's what makes me a traitor in your eyes."

Tinsereg let her words float in the air between them. This was the moment he'd been dreading for a long time, but the confrontation had been inevitable since their first days. Somehow, he would have to salvage everything here and now.

"How long do you think we would last on our own?" he asked. "Tell me that. How long? Oh, sure, I know exactly how to defeat any army that tries to invade us. Just lure them out into the desert and wait for their water to run out. But how much of the food stuffs that we need come from Gondor, hmm? How long will we last with our current inflated population until famine starts to set in?

"But, maybe I'll invade southern Ithilien and turn it into our granary. How long do you think we will hold onto it? What's the birth rate here in Harondor compared to Gondor? How much steel do we smelt compared to them? How much lumber and hemp for rope do we have; cloth for clothes, leather for armor? How many casualties can we suffer, compared to how many losses Gondor can absorb?

"Answer me those things and will declare our own Maeglad Empire. I'll only have to slaughter half my officers and exile most too all my legionnaires." He looked into her eyes for a long minute. "It is hopeless. We need Gondor to survive, but that does not mean that we needn't be very wary of them and not watch carefully. No matter what you say, I will never turn against my family."

She gave him a look that could have soured milk and wilted flowers.

"Besides, for uttering what I just did, that definitely makes me a traitor. Still not too sure about you though, but Cam will definitely have to string me up now. I hope he didn't hear us just now." Sereg's attempt to lighten the mood wasn't exactly successful. "No matter what, we are in this together. We share the same fate. Remember that day in Hyarmentur when you thought I'd stolen the bolt of silk from your uncle?"

She stifled a laugh.

"You overheard it from one of the lancers in my pay. This is the same thing."

"No this is not." She was clearly upset, but had to keep from laughing at the same time. "Family struggles are always the most brutal."

Sereg nodded in agreement. "I have faith in you," he said. "Faith that has never waned since our first days."

---

At the age of 17, Tinsereg was given the South Shield of Gondor, making him the supreme commander of all the armies of the South. He was Prince of Umbar, Lord of the Haven, High Captain of the Arsenal, and Lord Governor of Harondor.

The Haradrim decided to test this callow youth of a lord and pressed the pinch in the border between Umbar and Harondor. Several border principalities along the Harnen River under the rod of Minas Anor broke away at the same time.

At a village the Haradrim destroyed, Tinsereg surveyed the damage. Smoking shells of houses with half burnt corpses dotted the terrain, and all the infants of the village had been drowned in the well. He noticed all the dead had their right hands removed.

"Why do they take their hands," Tinsereg asked his generals.

"They are a brutish people," answered Beren. "It's in their nature. Base and uncommon."

"There is always a reason," said Tinsereg.

"They're barely Men, if even that. They're beasts; there is nothing more to it than that."

Tinsereg closed his eyes raised his face to the sun trying to burn away the disappointment inside him. "Is this how we rule," he asked to the air. "How can we presume to rule what we do not understand?"

In the following days, Tinsereg not only defeated the invading army, he decimated it. In a remarkable encircling move he caught up with the retreating van of Southrons and routed it. He used the land as a native would. Tinsereg attacked with the sun in eyes of the enemy and the dust blowing in their faces.

Beren complimented his new lord. "Of all my years of service, I've never seen so complete a victory."

"It's a simple formula," he responded. Then surveying the enemy dead he said, "Take their hands."

"M'lord?"

"We shall be fair to them," Tinsereg responded, "and do unto them as they do unto us."

Many Haradrim thought Tinsereg had had native help in winning the battle, and any Southrons suspected of cooperating with him were tortured and mutilated by their own people before being killed. Tinsereg's army found many such unfortunate souls staked to the ground in the desert, face up to the ravenous sun with their skin cooked and peeling off in sheets.

For the Haradrim, this was their best chance to move towards their independence from Gondor. By gaining control of the Harnen, they'd be able to surround Umbar and have a decent chance of weakening Minas Anor's position in the South. Eventually they would be able to revoke the crushing tribute owed to Gondor and get their hostage sons back. All that stood in their way was an untested and idealistic youth of a Lord.

For Tinsereg, he had a full scale rebellion to squash and a need to prove himself to the High King and his father's peers. The South would be just the start for Tinsereg, a stepping stone towards a powerful position at the King's Court. His brother, Elagor, would eventually be High King, but Tinsereg could always hope to be a chief advisor and confidant, helping to rule the West from behind the scenes. He marched up the Harnen, and any village or town that didn't yield he burnt to the ground.

Arientari's brother (who was also her husband) governed a prominent principality along the river's upper reaches. For the past three hundred years it had been Gondor's primary ally in Harondor, dominating several smaller client states farther down the river all the way to the headwaters (much as it had when Gondor of old lost its hold on Umbar).

Tinsereg had broken or subdued many of these client states, and it roused her brother to war. They met on a savanna nearly directly south of Maeglad along the far shore. As he'd planned, with the thousands of hands in burlap sacks Tinsereg was able to provoke his enemy into a battle at a time and place of his choosing. Arientari was her brother's interpreter for the meeting between the generals.

"I have naught but two words for him," Tinsereg said, his eyes fixed her brother. "Battle. Tomorrow." With that he rode off without a reply.

Tinsereg arrayed his army with the flanks held back slightly. As a result, when the Southron army attacked an opening appeared in their line as Gondorian flanks allowed themselves to be pushed back. Tinsereg drove his reserve cavalry through this gap and attacked from the rear, capturing Arientari's brother-husband, Hyrumenetig, and all his generals after a fierce fight with his personal guard. Leaderless, the Southron army dispersed wherever hope or panic led them.

Tinsereg was now the undisputed master of the South. Hyrumenetig was at first left as king of his realm, but only at Tinsereg's discretion. However, he proved his tongue forked and secretly opened his lands to Gondor's enemies.

In Bar-en-Umbar, Tinsereg patiently monitored Hyrumenetig's actions with grim amusement. He let Hyrumenetig continue, slowly growing an army. All the enemies of Gondor who preferred to remain in the shadows contacted the rebel King and some sent emissaries. Slowly, Tinsereg got a very clear picture of exactly who his enemies were. Then, one night, Tinsereg struck. He arrested everyone connected to the rebellion and marched on Hyrumenetig's capital.

This time he sacked the city, leaving it ruined and decimated, carting off Hyrumenetig and the rest of his nobles to Maeglad as prisoners. The capital ziggurat, the cultural and political center of Near Harad, he ordered razed to the ground. The Harnen River was now under Tinsereg's direct command. Bar-en-Umbar was now the only capital of any import in the South.

To pay for peace, Tinsereg was married to twenty daughters of the principality's aristocracy. Chief among them was Arientari, Hyrumenetig's sister and wife. She eventually became his interpreter, and through her Tinsereg was able to negotiate very effectively with the tribal chieftains under his yoke and expand his network of spies and informants as well.

In the main square of Maeglad, Hyrumenetig was lead to his execution.

"Hyrumenetig, you stand accused of high treason against the Reunited Kingdom. Your guilt is beyond question, your penitence untrustworthy. You are hereby condemned to death."

Tinsereg stepped off his dais and approached the bound prisoner. Hyrumenetig was forced down to his knees by two legionnaires. Tinsereg drew Hinruin and held it aloft in the bright sunlight. The red glare dazzled the throng of Southron onlookers. "He who passes judgment," he shouted to the crowd, "must execute it. If the judge cannot, then the sentence is moot."

With that, Hyrumenetig was shortened by a head. The body fell to the ground. Tinsereg then stabbed his sword through the center of the fallen king's back. With methodical ease Tinsereg sheathed Hinruin and then pulled out his dirk as he walked towards the severed head. Everyone expected him to hold it up by the hair in display as was the custom of Gondor they were used to. Instead, he turned it and with his dirk plucked out the right eye. Silence permeated the crowd. Without the slightest hint of an expression on his face Tinsereg placed the eye in the cut in Hyrumenetig's back and then left.

Nobody in the crowd misunderstood the significance of the brutal display. This Southron king of men, who once had been so mighty as to be thought of as divine in nature, had been thrown down. His conqueror had placed his right eye in his back, a powerful symbol of ubiquity. It meant that Prince Tinsereg was not only his master in life, but also in death. To the Haradrim, it meant that Tinsereg's will was absolute and incontrovertible.

Never again did Tinsereg allow his enemies to consolidate against him. He kept his armies on active patrol, fighting many small engagements to win small local objectives instead of a few pitched battles with regional aims. This kept the guerrillas on the defensive; disparate and ineffective.

At first, his relationship with Arientari was strictly political. They were married in title only. The other nineteen wives he gradually married off to secure alliances with key Harondor and Umbar leaders, and even a few in Khand and the Haradwaith, and he fully intended to do the same with her as well.

Then, slowly, and especially after the birth of Iandil, they grew closer together. Once all his other so-called wives were sold off he gave her the name Arientari and brought her to Minas Anor for his father's blessing.

Then the world fell out from beneath Tinsereg's feet. Everything except Harondor was stripped from his control. From that time on, Tinsereg focused on Harondor and made what he could of it, consolidating his hold over the whole of the Harnen floodplain. Minas Anor lost its luster and grandeur in his eyes.

---

"I remember the first day I saw you," Arientari said, playing with her husband's hair. "It was the day before your great victory. I never saw a man before so focused, so intent. Nor a general more brilliant than yourself."

"I am a cruel man."

"Of course," Arientari said. "Leadership necessitates cruelty. So long as it is modestly delivered the subjects think themselves fortunate. You are greater than your brothers, a quality that you shouldn't shun."

"My grandfather, Eldarion, commanded that the Reunited Kingdom is never to fall into feuding sub-kingdoms but remain one state in perpetuity."

"And yet look how events force themselves onto pronouncements," Arientari said. "The Reunited Kingdom is breaking apart at the seams. Gondor and Arnor are even matched and this fight will result in naught but bloody stalemate and two separate dynasties. Don't send your forces across the Poros; you are not bound to their fate."

This time her argument didn't seem as cynical to him, but more out of concern. "No," Sereg still said. "A battle between my brothers is not inevitable. Nor that the outcome will be indecisive."

"But what can you do about it?"

"I don't know. I had hoped to find some way while fighting in the East but I failed. But I will find a way. I promise you."

"Do as you will." Arientari got up to leave. Water cascaded off her slim body and splashed on the tiled floor.

"Arientari!" Tinsereg shouted. She turned. "If I hadn't returned from the East would you have seceded from Minas Anor?"

"Yes," she admitted.

Tinsereg sighed loudly.

"What is so wrong with sundering yourself from a decadent, irresponsible, mean-spirited empire?"

"Because it is vain, irresponsible, and mean-spirited to do so," Tinsereg answered. "A dead king back in the East once said to me: 'A king dies with his land.' Gondor is my land as much as what we've carved out for ourselves here. When Gondor dies, I die. I will not see it destroyed. I will move with whatever force I can muster to avert this tragedy."

He then stood to look at her. "You would have me become king. But a king I already am. I rule here with no help or hindrance from Minas Anor. My ambition is not checked at the borders of this land, but I refuse, I refuse! to destroy what my fathers created."

"Your brothers seem perfectly willing to destroy Gondor, and chew us up with them in their madness."

"My brothers don't understand. They think the world is theirs to play with, it's not. We are responsible for the people beneath our station. Our loyalty to them begets their loyalty to us. That is how the real world works."

"Well that sounds very nice," Arientari countered. "And I'm sure it will be inscribed on an edifice some day, but those words mean nothing. They are an ideal to be pondered upon by philosophers divorced from the hardships of reality and worshiped by those who don't know any better. The armies of your brothers will march over those words and destroy you, me, and our son. All I want is to live with you to the fullness of my years in comfort. Is that so much to desire? Is that not worth dirtying your hands a little to make happen?"

"I am a great man. Greater than you know… because I choose not destroy what is greater than myself for a lesser temporal gain. In the end I will not allow Gondor to be only remembered for its spiritual poverty because it couldn't rationalize its own existence without reverting to some sense of nostalgia. Is it wrong to strive for something more? Gondor is not a lost cause; and I will not hasten its decline by becoming the very turncloak I am accused of being."

---


	20. Chapter 18: Osgiliath

"Elagor has potence, Elagor has providence, Elagor is at the gates."

-popular folk saying (Circa FA 302)

"This situation must not get out of hand. Alternative methods for defeating the Usurper must be explored in detail if the Empire of Gondor is to survive."

-Journal entry, Queen Mother Esgaler. 3-12-302

---

---

Osgiliath was for most of its history the capital of Gondor, until the Evil Power rose in Mordor and chased everyone out of Ithilien with plague and war. The city then fell into disrepair and then to ruins as it was fought over by Men and orcs, changing hands several times.

Then the High King Elessar declared the Reunited Kingdom and Osgiliath was ordered rebuilt. People flooded into the river-straddling city once more. "I found Osgiliath a city of rubble, and I left it a city of marvels," said King Elessar near the end of his reign.

The stone bridge was rebuilt and the Dome of the Stars rose once again. Over successive years the population of Osgiliath grew to such an extent that the old walls were torn down and the city expanded into the surround. By the end of Eldarion's long reign the walls of the city joined the great Rammas Echor into one massive fortification. A grand coliseum, the Dagorbar, was constructed and three great bridges now spanned the Anduin within the city.

Dressed in hard but elegant armor with a sable cloak, Elagor walked out onto the High King's Balcony of the coliseum. Celebras, Barahir, Pelatur, Arfëa, Artur, the Lords of Arnor, and Steward Heremir followed him out. The Mayor of Osgiliath and the city council, plus a few members of the local petty aristocracy, then came out to stand with their King. The packed amphitheater erupted in shouts and cheers. Smiling and waving his hands, Elagor waited out the roaring crowd.

"Subjects of Gondor and denizens of Osgiliath," he started. The toga-clad crowd of the city's wealthy erupted again. "We come to you not as the outside stranger, but as your rightful King here to deliver you!" Cheers. "Once, long ago, this city was the central city and capital of a great and mighty Gondorian Empire and so it shall be once more for the greater Reunited Kingdom!" His voice echoed throughout and carried up to the sunlight sky. The clouds in the sky were shaped like eagles and faces, and the people thought that the Valar themselves were watching down with special attention.

"As we are a son of Númenor, we are also Arnor and Gondor, Umbar, Rómenondor and Harondor. We are the West! The Dome of the Stars will be our Palace—but kept open to you and held only in trust. The Great Hall shall be rebuilt! There will be magnificent gardens and promenades and fountains. The Valar Temple will be remade with such splendor that the Valar themselves will weep to look upon it!" Everyone applauded at the end of every sentence. "This we will gift unto you as reward for your fidelity, and that of your Ruling Prince, the Steward Heremir, for his faithful service to our Royal Person."

When Heremir's Rangers discovered that Elagor was coming north from Harondor, he raced to Poros to take personal command of the garrison and river guard there. When the High King came to the gates, Heremir personally greeted him and invited him into Ithilien. Outside the gates of Poros, Steward Heremir knelt before Elagor and kissed his signet ring.

There was shock and panic in Minas Anor when the banners of Arnor were raised above the city of Osgiliath. The wall castles marrying the walls of Osgiliath and the Rammas Echor became tense borders. Every postern door had a guard on either side, and legionnaires faced down each other at the gates that separated the city and the Pelennor Field.

"Let the enemies of our Imperial Person be warned," Elagor shouted. "The Valar, and Ilúvatar himself, will not abide a false pretender on the White Throne of the West. Ilúvatar gave my family the Throne, and under His authority we take it back! Those who stand against our person will fall in the face of Their righteous wrath. But those whom render aid to our noble cause will have rewards heaped upon them."

Elagor let the noise from the crowd fill him. It elevated him to point where he was sure he could walk on water. "There is a dream that we have," he continued. "That our fair and glorious Kingdom shall stand astride the world! The word of the Valar will be spread to all corners! And we, as the chosen people, shall rule all that we see."

The cheers of the roaring crowd deafened all that heard it. It was a force that would not be sated, not be directed, and not be ignored. It finally subsided from its own accord. With that, he announced to the crowd that it was time for the games to begin.

Gladiators in chariots paraded through the doors and wild animals with metal collars were raised from the nether rooms. The gladiators threw laurels and other small gifts into the roaring crowds.

Elagor sat in the ornate throne in his box and the others sat in the guests of honor chairs. Criminals fought each other first for pardons, reduced sentences, or forgiveness of debt. Then the condemned criminals fought each other to the death. The winners of those fights were then set against the wolves, lions, and tigers. Those survivors were then taken care of by gladiators.

Gladiators then fought each other. After every fight the High King was given the option of sparing or condemning the loser. He held out his hand. If he pointed his thumb up then the loser's soul will go to heaven. Or thumbs down would command the victor to drop his weapon, sparing his opponent. High King Elagor believed that generosity was most proper for this occasion. His thumb was always down, and the people cheered the mercy of the High King.

Then orcs were raised up from the pits to a chorus of boos. The Crown Prince Barahir then emerged in full harness from the main door. The people cried out "hooray!" at the prince.

"He seems well at home in front of the crowd," commented Pelatur.

"He's my son," said Elagor.

Barahir, waving to the crowd, walked to the center of the floor. Swords, spears, and such were laid out for the orcs by the coliseum workers mid-distance between any two of them. The orcs were then unchained and they immediately ran for the weapons. Barahir unsheathed his sword and readied himself.

The orcs charged the Crown Prince from all directions. Barahir chose an orc and ran towards it. He blocked a swipe and then stabbed the orc in the thigh on the run. The two nearest orcs then approached at the same time. Barahir cut the throat of one and then gutted the other.

"I thought orcs were now a weak willed, dumb race," the Mayor commented.

"No," Pelatur answered. "All they need is a strong personality to follow. Also, if you rub the right lemon extract on their skins it gets all irritated and makes them more aggressive."

Barahir just decapitated another orc and the crowd reacted.

"There are a few uruks who've become the leaders of goblins in the Misty Mountains as well," added Celebras. "They tend to be more independent than the other kinds of orc."

"They still cause a problem for us to this day," Elagor said. "Lord Redbarad of Hollin knows just how much of a problem."

Then the crowd's roars took on a sudden ominous tone. Elagor and his guests looked towards the floor. A crossbow bolt stuck out of Barahir's right shoulder, and two more orcs were still left on the floor.

Elagor jumped to his feet and would have leapt down to the seats and then to the floor below if not restrained. Another bolt struck the marble of the box near the High King. With considerable difficulty, several Arnorian Lords were able to wrestle Elagor to the ground and hold him there.

---

The city of Osgiliath was under marshal law.

Citadel Guardsmen held the central villas where lived the Royal Family and the city leaders like fortresses. Legionnaires were stationed at every street corner. Other legions stood along the Via Rammas, the wide road that ran just within the walls of the city, across the wall castles that separated the Arnorians from the Gondorians. They were there to stare down the opposing troops of Queen Mother Esgaler and prepare for an assault (either to defend against one or to engage).

One of the crossbow assassins was jumped by those near him; he was in interrogation right now. But the other one evaporated into the crowd. A collapsible crossbow was discovered in one of the side walkways of the Dagorbar.

Centurions were knocking on houses, asking if the occupants had been at the coliseum that day. If they suspected anything they had the right to enter the house and search. Many centurions were so infuriated by the attempted assassination that they overstepped their authority and raided every house in their designated area. No gold coin or daughter was safe.

Barahir was treated that night and was gently resting with the help of poppy milk. His father was ranting and raving in the candlelit room next over. If it wasn't for very scared Lords and the stoic Redbarad the Arnorians might have attempted to storm the Rammas Echor and then the Pelennor and then the unbreakable outer Othram wall of Minas Anor itself.

The next morning Elagor shouted an angry challenge for a personal duel to his half-brother in the Tower of the Setting Sun. "If it is a fight you want with me half-brother, half-blood, then come out and face me! In the Dagorbar we will settle this dispute!"

There was no answer.

---

The tide of war then began to turn against High King Mithrim and his followers. The western Gondorian Lords, lead by Egarond of Anfalas, marched to Minas Anor and camped on the road to Pelargir. They declared themselves for Elagor and gave him a strong army on the other side of the River.

Then King Éohelm of Rohan appeared to the north, the Lord of Cair Andros by his side, and he and Elagor renewed their alliance and shook hands in friendship once again. High King Elagor now had a reliable means of crossing the Anduin River that Esgaler could not defend against. The Lord of Anórien and all his power was behind the Rammas Echor and could not threaten Cair Andros nor Elagor's northern flank. Wooden bridges reached out and spanned the Anduin both up and downstream of the City.

The First Eagle Legion, whose responsibility was the Bridge above the Rauros, revolted against their new commander from Minas Anor and declared themselves for High King Elagor. They wanted revenge for the late General Bergen and Elagor was more than happy to oblige.

Siege Towers were constructed by the hundreds and catapults, trebuchets, and ballistas by the thousands. They surrounded the Pelennor like teeth from a mighty beast coming up from out of the earth.

That's when Tinsereg's Harondor army came north. Bells sounded in the City of Minas Anor and the people looked to the South. At first, all they saw was the form of oliphaunts marching side by side towards them. Fear gripped them. "Losloth's Bane is here! Castamir!" some shouted, running through the streets. "Castamir has come again!"

Then the oliphaunts became more defined, and the people of the City saw that they had the White Tree on quilts hanging down from their sides. The legions, levies, and mixed cavalry could be then seen marching behind. Tall siege towers he brought in tow with him that unnerved the people of the City even more.

Unlike the rest of the armies of the Reunited Kingdom, the heats of the South necessitated a reduction in armor. It was a lesson hard won. Half of the legionnaires lost by Gondor in Harondor over the three millennia plus since its founding were due to the fierce sun.

Instead of the full plate and mail over thick wool, they wore skirts of leather and bronze, and had overlapping tempered steel plate leaves protecting their chests and shoulders. Vambraces and greaves were the only protection on their limbs, and cotton replaced the heavy wool undergarments and padding. Their helmets also had small holes punched in them to allow some heat to escape.

Now, all that Mithrim ruled was the ancient core of Gondor. The entire empire, north south east and west, had revolted against him.

---

The three brothers met in Elagor's villa that night. Tinsereg was doing well, his side near completely healed. He felt that his sword arm was still a little weak, but other than that he was battle ready. Dinner was being served as the conversation moved onto the war.

"What happened with the assassination attempt," Tinsereg asked. "Where do things stand?"

"We got one of them," answered Pelatur. "He died in interrogation without revealing anything substantial. The other, we have no idea."

"Do you think he might make a second attempt?"

"Doubtful, but we aren't taking any chances."

Tinsereg nodded in agreement. _How many more will Osgiliath breed?_

"Is the South united," asked Elagor, gesturing for the brothers to sit in his salon.

"The legion at Hyarmentur acquiesced," answered Tinsereg. "Then all of Umbar. Those still loyal to Mithrim have been detained. I brought them with me and they are currently in the Osgiliath dungeons. The fleet at the Arsenal is under your command."

"Good. Have the ships sail up the Anduin. I want Pelargir besieged by sea as well. When can they be there?"

"You've sent armies to Pelargir?"

"They are prepared," Elagor flatly stated. "When can the ships be there?"

"If we send messengers now they'll be there in eight days. Four days to ride there, two days to prepare, and a two day sail."

"Then I'll send the land forces down five days from now."

"What if we attempt to seize the ships docked at the Harlond of Minas Anor," ventured Pelatur. "Take away the last hope of escape. That will make them realize that the Pelennor is in fact a prison and hasten their demise."

"Sounds like a job for Heremir's Rangers," said Elagor. "The ships shall be ours."

"I'm sure the Harlond is well defended," added Tinsereg. "It's the only significant opening in the Pelennor that doesn't have defensive castles. They know it's a weak point. They have to know. We will have to ensure that their crack troops are elsewhere."

"What would you suggest," asked Elagor.

"Make like we are preparing to storm from all directions. Move a strong force with siege equipment across the river to the north and build catapults in Osgiliath. Do the same with Western Fief armies south of the City. Then give Mithrim and his mother a day to move their forces to defend, and then take the Harlond while they're waiting for our big assault."

"They won't pull troops off the wall to reinforce the Harlond if they think we're preparing to storm the Rammas Echor," Pelatur said.

Elagor smiled.

"Sereg," Pelatur said. "Is there enough ships then to surround Dol Amroth as well?"

"We would have no reserves," said Tinsereg. "But it would be possible."

"No," said High King Elagor. "We would need to secure the whole of Belfalas before such a venture would be advisable. All our power will remain at the Gates of the City. Pelargir is the only way any reserve army can come at us from behind, and that's what makes it the only exception. The noose is here, let's not expand it and strain our resources."

"Pelargir is also the gateway into the rest of Gondor," commented Pelatur. "Getting a head start with that siege is sound strategy."

Pelatur's flattery came off his tongue slick as oil to Tinsereg, which he found extremely distasteful. There were more than two and a half million Men arrayed around Minas Anor and Osgiliath. The stakes were nothing more than the fate of the entire West and Tinsereg felt all the pressure of trying to keep the situation in hand. But the truth of things was that he had no control over events and would never be able to stop a massacre if mere chance boiled over to critical mass.

"There has to be another way," Tinsereg finally said. "A way of securing your crown without resorting to kin-strife."

Elagor's eyes narrowed on Tinsereg. _There's betrayal in those words_, he thought. _Tinsereg has not the will to follow me to the end_.

"All of our plans thus far have been focused on waging aggressive war or defending against sorties from the Pelennor," said Tinsereg. "What if we besiege the City and force them to come to our terms."

"There's enough food stores behind the walls to last a year, plus whatever the Bitch's Army brought with them," Elagor said. The _Bitch's Army_ was his way of referring to the opposing forces.

"Yes," said Tinsereg. "But Eldarion's strategy relies on both Minas Anor and Osgiliath to be in friendly hands. We contain the lion's share of the reserve food stuffs."

"The other Lords of Gondor will never accept such a timid defeat," rebutted Pelatur. "It will give them an excuse as to why they lost, we cannot oblige them that."

"The whole of the Reunited Kingdom has revolted against them," said Elagor. "My cause is obviously just. You're not having second thoughts are you?"

"You know what happens to traitors, don't you," Pelatur added to sound threatening.

"A slaughter war will only cripple our center and leave Gondor impotent for many years. I say starve them into submission," Tinsereg said trying to sound aggressive to save his skin. "Arnor is open to us so we can supply ourselves rather easily. It is the patient path, but the least costly and most sure." His brothers just stared at him. Their minds were full of men going over walls and breaking down gates. "At the very least you'll ensure that Mithrim will come out eventually. May even secure the release of our sister Aldanna–"

"Don't mention our sister again!" Elagor exploded. "She is dead to us now!"

"Is that why you've been on this campaign for this long," asked Pelatur accusingly. "For her?"

"And just how is that any less noble a quest," Tinsereg asked Pelatur with contempt.

"This is about the usurpation of the White Throne of the Reunited Kingdom; anything else is just a distraction."

"Our own family is a distraction, Pel?"

"Our own family is the problem. Even so, Gondor being impotent for several years probably isn't a bad thing," Pelatur spit out. "Something has to bring these people back down to earth."

Elagor started laughing. "This is about the time our father would step in and say, 'that's enough, boys.' So, that's enough, boys."

The brothers stopped and became very quiet. It seemed sort of natural for Elagor to step into father's role. Elaldar had ruled a strict house, but one full of warmth. Each of them had memories of the strict disciplinarian as well as a kind and compassionate father. The two older brothers also remembered their mother as a gentle woman who seemed to have a secret knowledge that told her whenever she was needed.

After an appropriate pause, Tinsereg gestured to a servant to bring in a messenger. He told the messenger to ride to Hyarmentur and secure a ship there to Bar-en-Umbar. The fleet at Hyarmentur would sail to Pelargir and lay siege. The Umbar fleet will then join them at the earliest possible moment. "Should it be your signet ring or mine that goes with him, Highness," Tinsereg asked Elagor.

"Yours," he said. "There may be other orders that will require mine."

The messenger left with Tinsereg's signet ring. Tinsereg then turned back towards his brothers and said. "After we win this siege, there are other less severe methods of ensuring their continued obedience."

A few minutes later Elagor said, "After this, I will be known as Elagor Andúnëdacil. The West Conqueror. Sereg, brother, Ilúvatar put me on this world to conquer it, in His name. All men are not equal. Not all men can work their fingers fleshless in the smithies and sellers, or confine themselves to the foul reek of tanneries. Not all men can break their backs in the fields; and not just any man is worthy to rule a kingdom. I will have my Kingdom, and I will have it now."

---

The next morning, Elagor sent swift riders north back to Arnor to restart the trade between North and South. Orders he also sent to his captains in the Arnorian navy to send their ships to Osgiliath and strengthen his siege at sea. By the end of the next month, Elagor would be in a commanding position. Gondor was starved while he received regular supplies from all over the rest of the Kingdom.

He renewed his challenge to Mithrim, this time with a more mocking tone. "Does your High King not have the courage to defend his honor? But then, what honor can a Usurper have?" Again, he received no answer.

Five huge catapults were constructed in the middle of the main thoroughfare in full view of the Gondorian defenders. Sixty thousand legionnaires and levies massed north of the city and doubled the pace of the construction of siege ladders, towers, and trebuchets. The Western Fief armies to the south did the same.

From the bell tower on the Valar Temple Elagor's farsighted scouts could discern the movements of the enemy on the Pelennor behind the Rammas Echor. They were moving to prepare for a massive assault from all sides, but their response was lethargic and unorganized.

"Sounds like they are suffering from leadership problems," joked Elagor.

The plan worked. The Harlond was deserted by legionnaires and all that remained were the Quay Garrison and a few levies.

Under the cover of night three hundred of Heremir's Rangers and enough sailors to man the ships they meant to take set off from Osgiliath. They drifted south with the flow of the River around the bend towards the Harlond. The dock was built into the southern section Rammas Echor where it ran along the shore of the Anduin.

The River slowed down on its northern face as its course turned sharply to the south. This was the most dangerous leg of the mission because the boats would be right under the garrison patrolling the Rammas Echor. If they were too close to the other side of the River then the speed of the water would carry them past the Harlond and sweep them down into the Sea.

The sailors pulled the oars back into the rafts, conscious of every noise. They saw the moon glinting off spear tips above the lip of the Rammas Echor. The enemy was so close they could hear every gurgle the river made. All it would take was one man of the City Garrison to look over the wall and the whole operation would be finished.

At the Harlond itself there were several river galleons docked, their crews milling about and the Quay Garrison on a lazy patrol. Some Rangers started climbing up the ropes of the ships and the others landed at the unguarded corner were the eastern dock came up hard against the Rammas Echor.

They took the Harlond completely by surprise. The Quay Garrison fought to the death, but the levies quickly surrendered. They stopped a few sailors from setting fire to the ships and then those they brought to pilot the ships down to Pelargir boarded and were off. The Rangers then quickly abandoned the Harlond in their rafts before a counter offensive could be launched. They rowed to the east shore and then left the rafts to remove themselves from bowshot.

It was a stunning success. An embassy was sent by Mithrim to meet with Elagor the next day.

Elagor met with Lord Túrin of Dol Amroth in one of the wall castles on the Pelennor-Osgiliath border. A table was set in a chamber built directly above the Rammas Echor, the east half on Elagor's side of the wall, the west half on Mithrim's. Sitting at Elagor's sides were his brothers, and ten Citadel Guardsmen stood guard behind. Túrin brought an equal compliment of Citadel Guardsmen with him. There were also several legionnaires hiding below the trap door waiting for Túrin to give the signal for them to rush in. Elagor had a similar arrangement.

Steward Heremir was also present, but Lord Túrin was adamant that he would not be in the same room as the "dark hearted traitor." Elagor didn't give in and Lord Dol Amroth stormed out.

Two days later Lord Túrin returned.

Negotiations quickly then broke down because Lord Dol Amroth refused to address Elagor as "High King". Tinsereg stepped in to keep both the parties at the table this time around until Pelatur said, "Let us get down to the matters at hand. We all know that my brother Elagor wishes to sit the White Throne. We also all know that you mean to keep Mithrim on it. So, why are you here and what are you offering, Lord Túrin?"

Lord Túrin sighed. "First of all, I am charged to say that this army is illegal and must disband. Its officers are to surrender themselves to the–"

Tinsereg's face showed his complete befuddlement and Elagor's turned beat red with rage. Pelatur laughed. "Look whose army is trapped," Pel said. "We hold all the cards. You're surrounded. Your army is the one that should disband before it mutinies and slaughters its officers."

"You've been outmaneuvered, outgeneraled, and are outnumbered," said Elagor. "This is as far our mercy will carry. At any moment we can storm the Pelennor or sit and wait, letting you starve yourselves to death. You are under siege, and if you wish to have it lowered you will answer to our demands."

"And just what are they?" Lord Túrin didn't attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. He'd be damned if he let this _Arnorian_ push him around.

"Mithrim is to—"

"_High King_ Mithrim, you mean."

"Mithrim is to name me his heir and then abdicate the throne," continued Elagor. "His marriage to our sister is to be annulled. He and his mother are to publicly renounce their fault and folly and _beg_ for my mercy. If they do this I promise to spare their lives in return. If they refuse, they will be executed."

"And your offer," asked Tinsereg to Lord Túrin.

The Lord purposely took a long pause before responding in order to show that he would speak only of his own accord, and not at the behest of anyone else.

"Lord Túrin," Pelatur broke in. "We've sent an army to Pelargir to lay siege to it. The Southern Fleets have been sent north to cut Pelargir off from the Sea as well. Swift riders have also been sent north to the harbors in Arnor. Those ships will sail south as soon as they are able. When Pelargir falls, so will all of Belfalas, and then your own lands will be open to our assault. Do I need to point out to you that your behavior in these meetings will determine how harsh we are to you and yours? Imagine what it will be like if the only legacy of yours will be through my wife and our descendants."

He said that to deliberately provoke Lord Túrin, but the point was made.

"In our dungeons there are several Arnorian lords," said Lord Túrin. "Chief among them Arvegil, Lord of Harlindon. The amount of their ransoms, and even their very safety, is dependent on your behavior."

Harlindon was once an Elvish province west of the Blue Mountains. As the Kingdom of Arnor ascended under the renewed Rule of the Kings men moved into the southern parts of that land. At first they and their Elven overlords lived together in peace, and much of the estrangement between the two races was eased in that region.

Then, as the numbers of Men grew they began to pressure to be annexed into Arnor. So passionate were they that they even began to arm themselves to fight to that end. Not wanting to start a conflict over this issue the Elves abandoned Harlindon to settle in the Grey Havens or north across the Gulf. Many also took the Ships to the Undying Lands of Valinor.

"Don't threaten me," warned Elagor.

"Then don't threaten me," responded Túrin, Lord Dol Amroth.

"You know perfectly well what the extent of my retribution will be if you execute even one of my vassals."

"What are you here to offer, Lord Dol Amroth," asked Tinsereg, impatient with all the posturing.

"High King Mithrim remains on the throne, but the marriage is dissolved and the next High King will be of yours."

"The marriage has already served its purpose in giving our half-brother the title of High King," Tinsereg pointed out. "You give up nothing and confuse the order of succession. Are you trying to engender kin-strife amongst our people?"

"The people of True Gondor are true and loyal."

"To whom is the question," responded Elagor.

"Burning rows of wheat and cotton," Pelatur described. "Smashed stones of holdfasts, and peasants strung up on posts and locked in crow cages. Dol Amroth razed to the ground and plowed over."

"I will accept nothing less than Mithrim's unconditional surrender and immediate abdication," said Elagor.

"Then we have nothing more to discuss." Lord Túrin stood and turned to leave.

"Next time have Mithrim come to meet us himself," said Tinsereg to Lord Túrin's back.

---

Tinsereg and his family were invited to Steward Heremir's Palace just off the River. It was a spacious place, but not very richly adorned. Everything about it spoke of modesty and humility.

The dinner, however, was lavish. Thick soup with barley and venison, boiled goose eggs, and crumbled cheese started it off. Then came blood sausages, brown oatbread (the Steward claimed it tasted better than whitened bread), and a salad of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums.

"I'm surprised my brother didn't requisition this place to be his residence," Tinsereg commented.

"This is a Steward's Palace, a chief servant's palace, not a place of rulership," explained Heremir. "If we were in my citadel at Emyn Arnen, where I rule Ithilien from, then my Palace would have been handed over to Elagor. He wanted to make his own place of power, independent from the symbol of my Stewardship. That is why."

"Thank you for inviting us to this dinner," Arientari said to their host. "We greatly appreciate it, but I'm afraid there's only very little that we can do for you in return."

People in the upper echelons of Osgiliath society never do favors for anyone unless it is in furtherance of an agenda or to climb up the social ladder. They won't do anything for anybody unless they had something to gain from it. Tinsereg was curious as to just why the Prince of Ithilien had invited them over, but would have never said anything about it until the conversation moved in that direction. His wife was more direct in such matters.

The old Steward smiled. "My concern wasn't for what you could do for me, but what I could do for you. I couldn't help but notice you've been housed where the city leaders could effectively ignore you. Out of sight, out of mind. So, I wanted to show them that you are still a strong player here."

"Thank you," said Tinsereg. "But I hate these kinds of politics and I won't play that game."

Arientari hid her displeasure with her husband in a sip of her soup.

Heremir grunted. "Unfortunately, if you want to have any effect on these events you are going to have to. Tomorrow everyone will be talking about how you had dinner with me. They will want to know why and you'll have to take advantage of that."

Tinsereg shook his head in disgust, but agreed to do so.

"Excellent," Heremir exclaimed. "I have much confidence that you can make this situation a whole lot better."

The next courses were then served. Trout flanks baked in claw and wheels of a delicious white cheese. Roasted duck with honey and carrots. Buttered oysters surrounded by dwarf cabbages. Pies of mutton and beef, sprinkled with spices and chunks of bacon, all served with fine Dorwinion summerwine and sweetened lemon water for Iandil.

"I'm trying but the obstacles seem insurmountable," said Tinsereg. "All it takes is one scared soldier on either side to fire an arrow at someone to start a massacre."

"You can't worry about the things you can't change," consoled Heremir. "Focus on what you can do and strive to achieve it. Who knows, miracles oftentimes happen that way."

Arientari then spoke up. "One of the things that I just cannot understand is why these Gondorian Lords have so much enmity towards their Arnorian cousins."

"Well," began Steward Heremir, "to them Arnor is a place to send second sons, excess cousins, and family embarrassments to. They view Arnor as an inferior kingdom; always have. In Gondor blood is everything. Those who have the most pure Dúnedain blood are at the top; those who aren't pureblooded are lower by degrees."

"They think of themselves the same way they think of horses?" asked Iandil.

The old Steward looked at Tinsereg's son and laughed. "Yes, I guess they do. Funny, I never thought of it that way."

"Why are they then so bitter against my family," asked Tinsereg. "We are of the most pure blood. More pure if you count the Elvish blood from Lúthien, Idril, and Arwen."

"The Imperial House of Telcontar is from Arnor," Heremir explained, "and Arnor of old split into three sub-kingdoms. Your line is from one of sub-kingdoms, therefore they view their own pedigree as superior. The Crown Princes rule Arnor as lord before coming south and all the High Queens have been from Arnor as well so these Lords couldn't marry their progeny into the ruling line, which only irritated them further. These Lords are very prickly and have long memories of any slights, real or perceived, they feel their Family has suffered. Some go back hundreds of years. Take this endless feud between the Lords of Dol Amroth and Anfalas. There is no good reason for it to continue, but yet it does like it's instinctual; the way things _ought_ to be.

"Yes, they did have much respect and high regard for Elessar. But that was only because he defeated Sauron and rescued Gondor. That respect carried somewhat into his son's reign, but by the time your father came to the Throne it was all gone. Now they grumble that they did not need Elessar to save them at all; that they could've handled Mordor themselves with no help from Arnor." He shook his head in sad frustration.

"Then why have they not tried to put your House back into power," asked Arientari. "The Ruling Stewards were of your House and they seemed not ill tempered towards that era."

"Yes, I am of Gondorian Dúnedain heritage. But my forefather, Faramir, the last Ruling Steward married Éowyn of the Rohirrim. They have nothing but contempt for those people. To them the Rohirrim are their own, personal stablemasters. Nothing more. I'm out of the running for rulership. My Princedom of Ithilien tolerated as a reward for past faithful service. No, they want pure blooded Gondorian heritage on the Throne; and now we know the lengths to which they will go to see it, upholding an unholy matrimony.

"It's a shame really," the old Steward continued as he chewed between points. "My grandfather saw the growing estrangement between Gondor and Rohan and tried to unite the two kingdoms through marriage to ease it. Well, that started a firestorm. The Dúnedain hollered that the pureblooded Imperial Family should never dilute the blood of Númenor and many Rohirrim chieftains wouldn't stand for Rohan's Kings being buried in Rath Dínen." Heremir shrugged. "So your father never married the eldest daughter of Rohan's King at the time and his sister never married the Crown Prince of the Mark.

"And then there was the push to split Ithilien into its respective Northern and Southern parts. My father and uncle goaded into demanding their own princedoms by the Dúnedain as punishment for that marriage my grandfather attempted. Thankfully my father and his brother were on good terms, and High King Eldarion refused to sign the petition whenever it came to his court."

Tinsereg and his family knew first hand the effects of the Dúnedain's disregard, and were acutely aware of it. They'd tried to shield their son from it, but a few clues inevitably leaked through.

"Is that why we couldn't visit grandfather before," Iandil asked. "This whole blood thing?"

Tinsereg and Arientari exchanged a look, wondering how much of the truth they should tell him. "Yes, that is the reason."

"We weren't welcome," Arientari elaborated. "But you shouldn't disregard them in return. Such things don't help matters, it can only be corrosive. Do you understand?"

"Yea."

"Good."

"Sage advice, Princess," complimented Heremir.

"Can we come and visit here," their son asked.

"That's up to the Steward," Tinsereg passed the response to Heremir.

"My home is always open to you."

That seemed to make Iandil very happy. Their son liked the Steward's exotic bird collection in the Left Wing's courtyard.

Dessert was then served. Apples baked with cinnamon, large ripe oranges, and mint tea.

After the dinner Tinsereg and his family took a heavily guarded carriage back to their villa at the extreme end of Osgiliath. It was the summer estate of a minor lord from Andrast; a comfortable dwelling, but well out of the way of the main streets of Osgiliath. Iandil slept all the way home. Looking out the window, Tinsereg listlessly watched the city creep by. There was the soft pink marble of the marketplace attached to the wide forum, and the sprawling, all-important complex known only as—_The Library_.

"You know what to do now, correct?" Arientari asked her husband.  
"Yes I do."

"Are you going to do it?"

"Yes I am."

"Good," she said. "Because I didn't marry an indecisive coward."

---

A tent was set up north of Minas Anor near the western shore of the Anduin River. It was placed purposely within bowshot of both the garrison on the Rammas Echor and Elagor's army as a means of engendering trust. It had been Pelatur's idea, a formality to ensure that Mithrim would actually come out of his little fortress.

Right now though, Pel was bored. _Incredibly_ bored.

Himself, Tinsereg, and Elagor waited for their half-brother inside. There was a small table with four chairs set up. As per the agreement, all three were unarmed and unarmored. Well, Pelatur himself wore a hidden mail shirt beneath his tunic and had a dagger in his boot, but letting his brothers in on that little nugget of information would be extremely unwise.

"When is he getting here," he asked idly.

"Certainly taking his sweet time," added Tinsereg.

"He just wants to be late because somebody told him we'd wait for him," dismissed Elagor.

As usual, Pelatur regarded himself as "petulantly patient." Although his secret mail shirt and dagger kept his heart rate high, he felt in control of himself. Sereg was quiet and reserved, it was difficult to figure out what he was really thinking. That was dangerous, and Pelatur didn't like it. Elagor… well… he was angry; always angry. There were varying degrees of anger, sometimes more, sometimes less, but it was always there. Right now he was just slightly angry.

A half hour later Mithrim finally showed up. He wore the purple and white toga, signature of the High Kings, and a gilded crown of fig leaves. "Well, I see everyone's here."

_THIS should provoke Elagor_, Pelatur thought. "Now," he mocked Mithrim's tardiness.

Elagor stood up. He didn't tower over Mithrim, but was intimidating none the less. "I will have your crown when this is over with."

_Well, this is starting out better than I could have hoped_, thought Pelatur.

"You cannot win," Mithrim replied. "Even if you make it over the Rammas Echor I have a million men behind it on the Pelennor and after that, there is the Othram, made of unbreakable stone, guarded by a strong City garrison. The Great Gates of Minas Anor are spell wrought by Mithrandir and reinforced with _mithril_; you will not break them and enter the City. This whole effort of yours is futile."

"Impassible walls and doors do not exist," Elagor countered. "If I can't knock it down I will dig under and bring it down or charge over and win it. Walls and doors do not concern me. What concerns me is your perversion of my House and the murder of my father."

"I did not come here to be berated like this–" Mithrim began, and then exploded, "he was my father too!"

"I'm his firstborn!"

"That doesn't automatically make you his heir!"

"The Lordship of Arnor makes me his heir!"

"Degarond, Lord Ethring is the Lord of Arnor now!"

"Arnor now belongs to my son!"

Pelatur then decided to jump in. _This is fun to watch, but it has to end now._ "Mithrim! Your mother's marriage to our father is no longer recognized," he said like he was explaining a harsh reality to a child. "You are a bastard at best and that means you have no authority." Pelatur caught the look Sereg gave him saying, _what do you think you're doing?_ It made him smile that he could aggravate Sereg.

"We'll see what the Supreme Cleric says about that."

"Just like what he said about your incestuous marriage," Pelatur prodded.

"I LOVE Aldanna!" Mithrim exploded with surprisingly genuine feeling. "I've loved her ever since I remember."

"Well, good for you," Pel responded.

"Gentlemen!" Sereg shouted. "Bickering serves no-one. Mithrim, you are here because you don't trust your men to fight. They are starting to suffer from disease because you've kept them behind the Rammas Echor for months. We are here because we don't want a costly siege or suffer the enormous casualties that taking Minas Anor by storm will cause. All four of us are great Kings of Men. Now we are here to determine which of us is to be Emperor amongst us Kings. Let us not allow this opportunity pass by."

Mithrim seemed unimpressed. "I am not going to listen to preachy, nonsensical crap from a fallen Dúnedain. If this were generations past you'd be labeled a Black Númenorean and properly banished."

Pelatur saw Sereg's jaw clench with cold rage. As much as he enjoyed Sereg being shown the error of his ways, Pelatur was becoming bored again. _This might be the time to act_, he thought. Pelatur surreptitiously reached down to touch the dagger to make sure it was still there and ready. He then crossed his arms as Mithrim and Sereg stared each other down.

"I wonder what Aldanna will say to that," Sereg responded. "How dare you call me fallen."

"How dare you mix your High Blood with that of lesser Men."

"How dare you not mix your blood at all!"

"At least I don't declare my allegiance to barbarian races."

"Just how are they lesser," Sereg retorted. "Tell me how. So their life-spans are a third of ours. Are they not ruled by the same passions as we? Do they not need all that we need? What makes us greater? What? We were deceived by the Evil as easily as they were! That's why we're here, Mithrim; why we are exiles in this land."

Sereg had just crossed the line. What he had said was unbelievable. It didn't make sense. It was blasphemy, heresy. They all now looked at him as if he was a stranger in their midst. _He will never rise beyond his post now_, Pelatur reasoned. _Poor fool, but he deserves it_.

"Shut up and sit down, Tinsereg," Elagor chided. Sereg obeyed. Elagor then turned his attention back towards his challenger. "You cannot keep your crown. Abdicate and save your life. I promise you my protection for the rest of your natural life."

"And just how long will that life be," asked Mithrim indignantly.

"You and your mother, along with all who will follow you, shall be exiled to Tolfalas where you will live to the natural limit of your life."

"What of Aldanna?"

"She will remain, and this union of yours, and yours alone, will be annulled."

"Rather cold comfort."

"The alternative is to lose your crown anyway and your head with it."

"Or you will break yourself on the attack. I dare you to charge the walls, I dare you."

"And I dare you to watch as your defense melts around you as your men change their allegiance."

_Now is the time_, Pelatur decided. He could see it now. With the other brothers distracted he could stab Elagor through the back before turning on Sereg. Mithrim was too weak willed to fight or run away. _He was heavily coached for this meeting_. He would then make a pact with Mithrim and ride through the Rammas Echor before anyone else knew what had happened.

As chief advisor he would show Mithrim and Esgaler how to defeat Barahir and the besieging forces. _All the brains of the operation are here in this tent anyway._ Pelatur will then become the master of Mithrim's council and destroy all who could stand against him, including Esgaler. Then he would dispose of Mithrim, freeing his sister and then claiming the Winged Crown for himself. Unlike Sereg he had the ambition and (unlike Elagor) the patience to become High King.

Sereg would never support him and his methods. That's why he had to die.

Elagor's dream of conquest will ruin the Reunited Kingdom. That's why he had to die.

Mithrim was incompetent. That's why he had to die.

Esgaler was a heartless snake. That's why she had to die.

Aldanna will be the symbol of his mercy and charity, giving him the love of the people. That's why she must survive.

"You will not be the master of me!" Mithrim shouted, his tough façade beginning to crack.

"The Valar do not stand at your side! Righteousness stands behind me! Bend your knee or be destroyed!"

"I am the High King! This is my land! That is my army out there! I will take it back from you!"

_What a whiny little bitch_, Pelatur smiled to himself. He reached into his boot and grabbed his dagger. Elagor had his back to him, shouting down at Mithrim and shoving his finger into his half-brother's face. Pelatur picked out the exact spot on Elagor's back where he would shove his blade into. He gently started to ease the blade out from his boot when…

Tinsereg slammed his hand into the table. Everyone froze and stared at him in surprise. Pel dropped the dagger back into its holster.

"Clearly we cannot come to an agreement amongst ourselves. Therefore, we have to turn to a higher power."

"Yes," Mithrim exclaimed. "I agree completely!"

"I'm not talking about the Supreme Cleric, Mithrim," said Tinsereg. "Nor the Osgiliath Cleric, or any other Valar Cleric."

"Then we should set sail to Valinor," critically inquired Elagor.

"The seas are bent Sereg," Pelatur jumped in. "We'll never reach there; only new lands."

"Why would I think that? No. That's not what I'm suggesting."

"Then just what are you suggesting," asked Elagor.

"We need an arbiter of whom nobody will question."

"And just who might that be?"

Tinsereg's answer shocked them.

---


	21. Chapter 19: Lothlorien

"To my Most Precious,

"Unfortunately this war has finally forced me away from your company. It hurts dearly to part, especially over this ridiculous scheme of Sereg's. I miss the feel of your heartbeat against my chest and the smell of your hair, but I must do what I must for the good of our Kingdom. I don't know when or if I will return, this little journey might be only a trap, but please wait for me and try not to worry. Listen to Mother, she knows all the answers and will protect you from all enemies.

"Take care and stay at ease. Mother will ensure everything is all right during my absence and for my triumphant return. No worries.

"I can't wait to see you again.

All my love,

Mithrim"

---

---

There are some places that are too pristine, too beautiful, and too ethereal to exist in this world. Places where the footsteps of Men seem but a rude and unclean thing. Lothlórien was one such place.

The forest looked strange. It was a preternatural green that _impacted_ the senses. Try as he might, Tinsereg couldn't really concentrate on anything because the colors were so overwhelming. He saw the mosses hanging down from the branches and shrubbery filling out the forest floor, and yet there seemed to be a whole world behind them whose presence could be felt but not seen.

Elagor lead the way. Mithrim had been obstinately trying to keep in front of the rest of the brothers all the way there, probably due to the direction of his mother, but now he fell back to the rear. The hairs on the back of everyone's neck were standing up, but none were willing to admit it.

It had been a big fight trying to get Mithrim back out from behind the Rammas Echor. He wanted to take four times the number of Citadel Guardsmen that the other three brothers were to bring. That was unacceptable. Tinsereg helped by saying he would go alone, without any Guards. Elagor, not wanting to seem unmanly, also agreed not to have any Guards, attendants, or other officials. Pelatur agreed as well.

Mithrim _still_ wanted to bring Guards, and a lot of them. When the other brothers threatened to leave him behind, at first he seemed happy to see them go, believing his position secure. Pelatur then reminded him of the reserves of Númenorean Fire in Osgiliath, and how little it would take to burn the Pelennor and everyone in it to cinders.

In negotiations with Túrin, Lord Dol Amroth, things did ease up a bit. Elagor even agreed to remove his army from the northern flank and reposition them across the Anduin to ensure Mithrim's safe passage. Apparently, that sent the signal to Minas Anor that they could dictate terms to the other brothers. In effect, gain a strong strategic position for the upcoming battle using these negotiations as a cover. Minas Anor then wanted to place its own armies to occupy Cair Andros and the Bridge for the way north to Lothlórien to "ensure the High King's protection." Elagor obviously refused.

That's when Tinsereg had the idea of tossing thousands of leaflets onto the Pelennor describing how Mithrim was too cowardly to journey to Lothlórien. The leaflets were immediately banned and reading, discussing, or even acknowledging their existence was made punishable by death. Elagor's scouts saw several men on the Pelennor hung from posts. A few were even crucified.

A week later when it was obvious that the leaflets could not be crushed, Mithrim made his decision to journey without Guards along with his brothers very public.

When he came through the northern gates of the Rammas Echor he was in full harness with a greathelm. There was not one part of his body undefended by shinning plate or mail. Elagor laughed at him when he came riding up. "Worried about something?"

"This is three on one," Mithrim responded.

"We're doing this to prevent a fight not start one," Tinsereg said.

"Your army is still out there and I will not be a bargaining chip for you."

"Like that will change the position of your mother," said Pelatur.

"What?"

"As long as Aldanna remains in her power," finished Tinsereg. "Queen Mother Esgaler does not need you."

"You're not a bargaining chip," continued Pelatur. "You're useless as one. Therefore, you're perfectly safe with us."

"How do I know that?"

"You don't," Elagor spit. "Now let's go."

Elagor had repositioned his forces, but his ally King Éohelm still held the north in power so Esgaler couldn't flood the northern flank with troops while the brothers were on their way. Elagor had his own men ready to march and ferry back across the River as soon as the brothers passed their position. He made sure he wouldn't lose the northern flank.

It was a week on the trail north to reach their destination. They moved north through the East Mark where the army of General Fuinur never reached. King Éohelm accompanied them through his realm to ensure the brother's protection. A few of his rebellious cousins still roamed the grasslands. When they passed Fangorn Forest they reached the northern extreme of Éohelm's realm where the King of Rohan bade them good luck and farewell.

When they reached the border of Lothlórien they couldn't coax the horses any farther. They didn't want to enter as well. The woods of Lothlórien were permeated by a lonely sadness that kept them at bay.

"There is magic here," said Elagor.

The horses whinnied nervously and shied away. They, and their masters, feared to enter.

"We must go on," urged Tinsereg.

"Explain to me again why we are here, Sereg," asked Pelatur, masking his fear with sarcasm.

"The authority of Elessar's wife, Arwen Undómiel, trumps that of all others."

"We don't know she's still here, or even still alive for that matter," Pelatur complained.

"If you don't want to go in," said Tinsereg. "Then stay behind."

Elagor steadied his horse and then readied himself. "I will not be turned away by a mere forest." He then kicked his horse and forced it into the wood.

The brothers followed with trepidation.

Their horses plodded on. Everyone was very weary, looking around, trying to get a bearing on their surroundings but failing. Tinsereg looked up. The canopy was too thick to determine where the sun light was coming from. There were no visible misty rays coming through the leaves to help guide him either.

"Are we still headed north," asked Tinsereg.

"I have no idea," answered Elagor.

"Perhaps we should turn back," said Mithrim. "We don't seem welcome here."

"Shut up, Mithrim," Elagor exclaimed.

"If you want to think you deserve a crown then I suggest you start acting like you do," chided Pelatur.

They moved deeper and deeper into the forest, and the light of the day grew dim and forest dark. It was decided to make camp and rest for the night. That night they all had dreams that none of them could explain, nor felt like sharing (even to posterity for they never discussed them in notes, conversations, or journals except to say that they occurred). Mithrim was even more adamant about turning back that morning, but he didn't want to be alone and so stayed with his half-brothers.

After a few more hours of traveling Elagor was growing impatient. "We could have walked through this forest and back again twice in this much time," he complained. "We're going in circles."

There was a gust of wind and two figures came flying down from the upper reaches of the trees. They landed perfect and light in front of the brothers. The two elves were clothed in a strange fabric that shifted with the colors of the forest. Long thin swords hung from their hips, and their long dark hair came flowing out from beneath their helmets.

"Halt where you are," one of them said.

"You are not welcome," the other said. "Leave now."

"I am Elagor, son of Elaldar, of the House Telcontar," introduced Elagor. "These are my brothers Pelatur and Tinsereg, and my half-brother Mithrim. Well met."

"We are kinsmen, then," said the elf on the right. "For I am Elladan and this is my brother Elrohir, sons of Elrond. Well met indeed."

"Yet you do not have permission of the Lady of the Whispering Wood to enter her realm," said Elrohir. "Go back now, and be undisturbed."

_At least they are polite_. "We are here in need of her guidance to solve a problem most dire," started Tinsereg.

"Do not involve us in the disputes of your kind," warned Elladan. "They interest us not."

"It is in the prevention of a dispute that we come," said Pelatur.

"My half-brother has–"

"We don't care," Elladan interrupted Elagor bluntly. "These times are of the Dominion of Men, your problems are your own to resolve."

"Then why do you still reside here in Middle-earth," Elagor asked with bite in his voice.

"We are the Guard to the Lady," said Elrohir. "We stay for her."

"There is a disagreement amongst the Family," said Tinsereg. "As the Grand Matriarch, her counsel is required."

"The Lady is in exile," said Elladan. "She wants none of this."

"I require the blessing of the Lady Undómiel to cement my reign," said Mithrim from the rear.

Elagor turned to face him. There was fire in his eyes. "Your claim is invalid and will be proven so!"

"Brothers," Tinsereg shouted.

They looked around. Their elven great-granduncles seemed distracted. The leaves of the upper branches were rustling, but no wind could be felt. A tiny red bird squeaked and whistled.

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a glance. They obviously didn't seem happy. "You will follow us," said Elladan.

"Do not bring your troubles into this land," Elrohir angrily warned. "It has suffered long enough through the many years, and needs not more sadness of the Doom of Men to befall it."

"That is not my intent," Elagor responded with quiet pride.

Elladan and Elrohir escorted the four brothers along the straight way to Caras Galadon.

There the forest changed to the smooth silver barked trees described in the Red Book that few if any Men had ever laid eyes on. The canopy of leaves was gold and shimmered in the sunlight with a brilliant gilded radiance. The Grand Matriarch, the brother's great-grandaunt, Arwen Undómiel sat alone in the highest of the treetop halls.

They couldn't look directly at her. She appeared to them the picture of despair. Still young, no older than the brothers, but carried with an aged lethargy and her eyes seemed only thin veils over an infinite blue abyss. Arwen didn't look _at_ them so much as she looked _passed_ them, deep into their innermost soul and possibly even into their fathers, even to her own Elessar and beyond. A tear rolled down her cheek.

The four brothers of Gondor knelt before her presence. Arwen bade them rise with a silent lifting of her hand. She wore a black dress of an innovative and confusing design of intricately woven lace and transparent silk covering her arms and face. A plain coronet of silver threads adorned her brow.

There was an unearthly milky glow that saturated the air, and everything was held together without nail or twine, like they stayed in place simply because they _wanted_ to. Arwen was the Lady of this realm but seemed somehow separate from it, yet her personality appeared to press on her surroundings, indeed the whole forest, with a quiet but desperate despair. Arwen was the creator of this place as much as she was a resident of it. Tinsereg could think of no explanation for, nor even comprehend the mystery of it.

"Lady," Elagor began with utmost reverence. "We apologize for disturbing your peace, but we have a request for you."

"A need more like," clarified Tinsereg. "Or we would not have been driven to seek your aid in this matter."

The Lady Arwen then moved her gaze onto Mithrim. "The Empire founded by your husband is in distress," he said. "The lawful succession is in dispute; my brothers have revolted against me."

Arwen's gaze then left Mithrim, and he was silenced. Pelatur was next. "Our younger half-brother usurped the Winged Crown from Elagor, the eldest and declared Heir Apparent."

Her gaze then moved back to Mithrim. "We followed the older, more hallowed Númenorean custom of the eldest child inheriting the Throne rather than the eldest son."

Tinsereg was then next. Arwen's eyes could not be wrestled with; the truth just came out whether willingly or not. "Aldanna was named High Queen of the West," he reported. "Mithrim was then married to her in order to bypass the three of us to get to the Crown."

Lady Arwen's gaze then turned inward, searching in herself for answers. She seemed to shrink then, becoming a whole and separate universe within the confines of her flesh. This only added to Tinsereg's perception of her as a being who'd tarried too long in this world, in this life.

"I have been waiting," she finally said; her voice soft but definite, like a clear whisper that came from both near and far away. "For a very long time."

---

The Lady of the Whispering Wood would speak with the brothers separately in a private audience. Mithrim was chosen first. This angered Elagor but he wasn't about to raise a fuss in this place. After a meal and an undisturbed night's rest they all removed to Cerin Amroth where Arwen wanted the audiences to take place.

Elladan and Elrohir watched over the other three brothers while Arwen and Mithrim conversed, providing them with food and shelter. The atmosphere was one of equality amongst strangers; neither Man nor Elf was captive or master of the other.

"It's been a long time," commented Pelatur after a while.

"I wonder how much they have to talk about," said Elagor, increasingly worried that it meant Mithrim was somehow convincing Arwen to side with him.

A while later Mithrim came back. "I'm leaving," he announced in cold stiffness. There was deep terror in his eyes and then the young King of Gondor raced back to his horse and then swiftly left Lothlórien.

Elagor was chosen next.

She sat on a wooden chair that seemed grow up from the ground at a small clearing on a hilltop. Elanor and niphredil bloomed around the seats and sweetly fragranced the air. Her posture was perfect.

"Please sit," she said gesturing to a similar chair opposite her.

Elagor politely lowered his head and obliged. They sat in silence for a while, Arwen studying this great-grandson of hers. "You are strong," she said. "But wracked by guilt."

"In an act of rage… my eldest son was killed."

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

"But that is not all," she said, peering. "There is an obsessive quality to you."

That made Elagor very uncomfortable. "I came here to plead my case for the White Throne, no more. If my claim is more valid than my half-brother then say so. I am my father's eldest son, the Lord of Arnor."

"It takes more than a strong claim to make a rightful King."

That made Elagor angry. "Regardless," he said. "I do not need to be here. My armies are in command of the field. I could take my crown if I wish."

"I do not doubt you can," Arwen replied. "But you have other things in mind. Plans for the future; what to do with your Kingdom once you've won it. And you need as many men as possible to achieve it."

"I mean to strengthen the West by projecting its power outward across land and sea. We've grown vain and callow in these years of peace. I mean to make us a better people though trial and sacrifice."

Arwen paused and renewed her inner studies. What she was consulting Elagor had no guess, for she had a preternatural knowledge that exile shouldn't afford. "Will your people be willing to make the sacrifices that you will demand?"

"They will follow," Elagor said firmly.

"So your son's death hasn't dampened your dreams. Nor has it made you seriously question your own motives."

"This interview is done," Elagor then proclaimed, standing up. "That was Ilúvatar's will. No more. I am here to ask you only three questions. I hear Elves have abilities of foresight that Men are not blessed with."

"That is correct," she sounded gravely disappointed.

"When I set out," he began. "Will I conquer the world?"

"Yes."

"Will I punish all my father's murderers upon my return to Minas Anor?"

"Yes."

"Am I a divine son?"

"Yes, Melian of Doriath is your ancestor. You know that. The Annuls tell you all who've contributed to your bloodline. You will make your own greatness in the world. It is neither bestowed nor pre-ordained."

"Thank you."

With that, Elagor left.

Pelatur, during his audience, repeated his desire to save the West from Elagor's disastrous war. As High King he promised to secure the Kingdom and the House of Telcontar for the next thousand years. However, he found no fault in the system of graft he created to remain in power in Rómendacilbar, and even admitted he'd continue the practice as High King. "All men are not perfect," he reasoned. "They don't want friends or leaders that are more noble than they because that is an example too difficult to live up to; a constant reminder of their own moral inadequacies. Nobody wants to suffer through that.

"But when you take someone's moral failings, acknowledge them, and tell them that they are still descent and good people—that makes them feel better about who they actually are. You can even encourage such behavior to accentuate the effect. It doesn't make them especially loyal to you, but it does allow a hold over them that is not easily shaken off, hence… stability."

"And what of your brothers?"

"I have nothing but respect for my younger brother. I have nothing but affection for my elder brother. But I have nothing but contempt for my half-brother." He then tried to smile reassuringly.

Next was Tinsereg. He sat in the chair across from Arwen and waited patiently for her to begin. He wondered how she would begin. From what he heard from his brothers, and confirmed by Arwen's gentle but penetrating gaze, was she would "pick apart your soul and show it to you", as Pel put it.

He sat there waiting for Arwen to begin, wondering what she would bring up to start. His heart began to pound harder in anticipation. Would she question him on his methods of leadership, or (worst of all) did he love his indiginie wife? Tinsereg didn't have an answer to that one. He was constantly wary of her efforts to manipulate him and it got in the way of his affection. He loved her dearly, but Tinsereg hated being manipulated and knew that his love wouldn't stop him from dealing with Arientari if the necessity arose. Did he think she loved him, or was she just seduced by power? And was he even worth considering as a human being if he would so willingly give up what he loved?

"Do you believe you are the most worthy to be High King out of all your brothers?" she asked, and completely broadsided Tinsereg.

"Yes," he had to answer truthfully.

"And what do you intend to do about that?"

Tinsereg lowered his gaze to Arwen's feet. "Elagor is my elder brother, and my father's chosen successor. There is no doubt in my mind to that. I will not claim the Throne over the blood of my brothers and nephews. The Throne is not worth that cost. Regardless, I will never be accepted as High King. But most of all, I swore to aid my brother and I will not go back on it."

"So you are bound by oath."

"Yes."

"An oath to Ilúvatar?"

"I am not Fëanor," he defended himself. "I don't make rash oaths before Ilúvatar that cannot be undone."

"Good, but are you prepared to accept the consequences of that choice?"

"Choice?" Tinsereg asked. "What choice is there? There is no one else. Pelatur's even worse and Prince Ciryaher, my uncle, is a buffoon. No lord of any standing will accept my ascension and Barahir is not ready for the Throne. What choice is there?"

"Perhaps you sell yourself short," she said with her sad smile. "Effective government is what everybody wants in the end."

Sereg grunted a gentle laugh. "Effective government is what the people want. The Lords only want favors, and it's the Lords that really matter in the end."

Arwen paused. She seemed disappointed, but didn't want to belabor the point. "What do you believe your destiny to be," she finally asked.

"What?"

"Your brothers have clear views of their destinies. What is yours?" When Tinsereg didn't answer for a while she said, "Aragorn's destiny was to challenge Sauron. Becoming King of Gondor and creating the Reunited Kingdom—that was a choice. When you talk about choice, are you actually referring to destiny, or are you looking at destiny as a choice?"

Tinsereg looked at her suspiciously. "I am not destined to become the High King."

"High King," Arwen said ironically. "That used to be Círdan's title, before that Gil-Galad, and Manwë, now it is in the possession of Men."

"This is the Fourth Age; the Dominion of Man."

"What happened when my brethren left Imladris for the Sea?"

"What does that have anything to do with this?"

"Your father, then the Lord of Arnor, bared their passage through his land," Arwen accused.

Tinsereg sighed. "That was a simple dispute that was completely blown out of proportion." Since Rivendell was to be evacuated and handed over to the Lord in Annúminas, the question as to how much lore the Elves were to leave behind became an issue. Elaldar, in the full brashness of his youth, detained several bands of Elves leaving for the Gray Havens, confiscating all their scrolls and books before releasing them. Arwen's son, the High King Eldarion came north to settle the dispute. "All confiscated elvish property was returned and the transition went smoothly afterward. What is this about?"

"Elagor is like your father is he not, then?" Arwen's smile this time was a bit more mischievous.

_She's beginning to enjoy herself doing this_, Tinsereg thought.

"Or worse," she finished.

"My father was a great King."

"Your father knew when to make hard decisions," she said. "Nothing more."

Tinsereg took in a quick breath in surprise. Arwen then continued, "You look to the Heavens for your answers, but they are not there, they are in your heart. That is where you should look. Valinor is a gift, it cannot be attained."

"What is your point," asked Tinsereg. "Why bring up all this? Why bring up my father?"

"The art of rulership is knowing what you will need before you need it," she said. "Your father thought that he might need the lore of the Elves one day, so he pursued it until the end. My son rightfully stopped him, but that doesn't mean the Elaldar's choice was wrong."

_What is she getting at_, Tinsereg wondered, confused and slightly alarmed. _What does she want? Let's see._ "I understand that sometimes kindness is a cruelty, and cruelty kind; but choices are either right or wrong. They have good or bad consequences and that is the proper judge of our actions."

"Then how will history judge you?"

Tinsereg thought for a second. "I don't know."

Arwen smiled. Apparently, he had just passed a test.

"These Realms in Exile—even ancient Númenor—was founded to oppose the Evil," he continued, though he didn't know why. "With Elessar that purpose was fulfilled, so now the Kingdom has no purpose beyond its own perpetuation. Elessar and Eldarion sought to build the West so as their victory would not be in vain, but now we are rudderless."

"And you think Elagor can give Gondor a new purpose?"

"Elagor can give Gondor a vision for its future. I can't."

"But what will be the substance of that vision?"

Arwen was speaking directly to Tinsereg's doubts. Giving them words to be known and defined by. "Even good kings do very bad things." Tinsereg studied the fine details of the flower right in front of him, trying to think of something more intelligent to say but failing. "Elagor will sit the White Throne because that was our father's will. For better or worse the line of succession must not be confused, giving any family member a potential claim. That will only lead to chaos, civil war. The Kingdom will survive Elagor—at the cost of how many lives, but the Kingdom will survive."

"Then should it survive?"

"Is there any other better option?"

Her smile this time was a bemused veneer on her deep blueness. "You have much foresight."

"I inherited it from you."

"You are not like most third childs I have known."

"I am the oddball," he said with a shy smile.

"That you are."

Somehow, something about this woman made him feel safe to talk. "I've never had a mother; maybe that's it. My older sister was my guardian, but it's not the same. I don't think the others have ever forgiven me for her death. Maybe that's why it was so easy to turn my father against me; for that woman to make him but a mere shadow of his former self. I will never forgive her, nor her son for that."

"And Elagor the means for your revenge?"

"He doesn't need any prodding from me," said Tinsereg. "He needs to be restrained."

Arwen's sad smile returned. "You remind me of him… of my Estel. There is much of him in you. You see the truth but deny its meaning. One day you will face the truth, and I have faith that you will make the correct choice, whether you consider it your destiny or not."

Arwen seemed to understand all that she wanted. She stood and walked over to him. Placing her hand gently on his cheek she said, "I do see much of him in you. You give me hope."

"M'Lady…" Tinsereg felt a profound sense of change inside him. Small but fundamental pieces of him rearranged and were fitted together like a puzzle. He felt complete now in a way that he had not been since he could remember. Now there was a strong foundation for him to stand on.

"It is my time now. No longer will I walk the paths of this world." Her smile was now the happiest he had ever seen, but tears ran down her face.

---

Arwen Undómiel, the third Elf to ever bond herself with a Man, the first High Queen of the Reunited Kingdom, and one of the last Noldor Elves in Middle-earth, was laid on a bed of leaves and flowers of elanor and niphredil. Her brothers Elladan and Elrohir, and her great-grandsons Elagor, Pelatur, and Tinsereg lifted her up and carried her body to the tomb inside the green hill of Cerin Amroth.

The Star of the North, the jewel Aragorn wore when he first walked into Minas Anor to claim his Kingdom, now adorned Elagor's brow. He was to be High King of the West; against all argument.

Now, in the season when the mallorn-leaves were falling but the spring had not yet come, the circle stone was rolled in place, sealing off Arwen from Middle-earth. But no matter, her journey was now on other ethers. Tinsereg thought her flying the Straight Way to Houses of the Dead where her Estel, Aragorn Elessar by another name, patiently awaited her, and it brought a smile to his face.

The three brothers were amazed at how much time had passed in Lothlórien without them realizing it; a whole winter come and gone. Yet they were mostly filled with loss. The face of the forest had changed. Its power was gone. No longer would elanor or niphredil bloom in Middle-earth, and the forests were for ever diminished until the day the Drowned Land was raised anew and Valinor returned to the circles of the world.

---


	22. Chapter 20: Empire

"Hands sign the treaties and count the dead. Hands have no tears to shed…

"In a dream, I have tried to build a palace, but all I see before me now is ruins. But I pass unto my successors the dream of that palace.

"My objectives were clear, my performance less than perfect."

-High King Elaldar

Personal Journal, 9/12/300

--

--

Elagor and his brothers rode back into Osgiliath. The people were stunned when the sentries rang the bells. A whole winter had come and gone while they were away. When Mithrim returned earlier the Citadel declared that the other brothers were enchanted in the woods of Lothlórien, never to return because they had sided against the True High King. Celebras refused to believe that story and she and Barahir kept a tight command on their forces, claiming that Mithrim had merely scampered back to the White Tower while the other brothers were waiting out the winter.

Both Celebras and Barahir knew many were now considering breaking away and repenting to High King Mithrim, but then the three brothers arrived back from the North to great fanfare and relieved hearts. Mithrim and his mother were further discredited.

Elagor immediately demanded an audience with his younger half-brother. A date was set and all the brothers prepared themselves.

The sun shown bright and clear in the morning sky, there was not a cloud in sight. It would be a beautiful new day.

The main gate to the Pelennor from Osgiliath was opened with a rough-worn heaviness.

The three brothers strode through. The Rammas Echor was five meters thick of hard and unyielding stone. The old wall that guarded the causeway to the first bridge of Osgiliath in the days of the Stewards had long been torn down and replaced by grand marble buildings, businesses, and houses as Osgiliath grew and set up its own curtain walls.

The great gate was opened and the barring portcullis rose upward. Soldiers looked down with awe and trepidation through murder holes in the ceiling. The whole of the Pelennor opened up to the brothers.

It was near completely covered with soldier tents and other temporary legion support structures. The rich towns had been built into inner walls of the Rammas, and they had rich cloths of bold colors displayed from the windows as if to welcome Elagor.

Legionnaires and levies formed up, pressing against the backs of Citadel Guardsmen all along the causeway to the Great Gate of the City of Minas Anor. They chanted and cheered, but more importantly, they saluted. Some even bowed to their new High King.

The centurions and generals that had received their commands from Esgaler and Mithrim now saw that it was wise to follow the eldest brother from now on. A long list of obvious missed opportunities and insults had alienated everyone on the Pelennor from High King Mithrim. Dysentery could be smelt in the air and the crucified corpses had long ago putrefied, but were ordered to remain up till they fell. Now, they were ordered taken down and given proper rights and burials.

Elagor prepared himself in his finest heavy metal cuirass and thick sable cloak, richly embroidered. His helm a legionnaire's helmet with a crown of gold and white feathers banded around it, and swan feathers riding up the sides like wings to the pointed top. Elagor's horse was fully armored as well. Its ornate shaffron and crinet seamlessly blended into the flowing quilted and embroidered flanchards and metal cruppers.

Pelatur and Tinsereg followed behind him in kind. Their armor magnificent to behold and their horses fully barded. Pelatur's cuirass had the rising sun in gold inlayed in it, and his helmet had a crest of white feathers mounted like a fan on the front. Tinsereg wore his Númenorean knight's helmet with small feathered wings up the sides and a mane of black horse hair mounted on top, sticking straight up and running down the rear to fall down on his back. His breastplate bore his heraldic crescent moon and river in _mithril_ and silver over an etching of Harondor and Umbar with various scenes from the South.

Four standard bearers rode behind their three respective brother-Lords with the banners of Arnor, Rómenondor, and Harondor and Umbar, all six feet long and billowing in the wind. They seemed to the soldiers and plebeians to be each great Kings of Men as they rode towards the Tower of the Sun straight backed and heads held high.

The _mithril_ re-enforced engraved Great Gates of the City opened to them and they strode inside to the roaring cheers of the crowd out on the Pelennor; but many back in Osgiliath worried that they were walking into a trap. None were more so than their families watching from buildings neighboring the Rammas Echor.

A quick glance at Minas Anor told Tinsereg that they would have had little chance if they assaulted the City. Elessar was a strategic genius when it came to defending the linchpins in his expansive Kingdom. Not only did the City Garrison man the walls, but there were also large balconies built on the roofs of the buildings across the street where Garrison archers could fire on any bridgehead an enemy makes. He had also invented _crenel teeth_, sword blades angled outward that could be mounted on the wall anywhere a ladder was placed to keep the invaders from climbing over the parapet.

There were storerooms where oil was stored just beneath the wall-walk that could be accessed through trap doors all along the parapet. Slow burning sconces were conveniently placed all along the parapet for the fire arrows used to ignite the poured oil. This was repeated for all seven walled tiers of Minas Anor.

All that—not to mention the nine foot ditch with its moat of fire hardened stakes and high earthen rampart built just before the wall.

Up the winding road that leads to the Court of the Fountain and the Citadel, the denizens of Minas Anor watched the three brothers as if they were a curious spectacle. A year of bitter propaganda and rumor had hardened them against the brothers. They thought the sons of Elaldar to be deformed dwarfs that limped and schemed and murdered their way to power instead of earning it in noble struggle. However, the men they saw today were the epitome of the noble aesthetic that they'd been taught to worship and praise in Temple and in the legends of their history. So they watched in a studied silence between rapture and disbelief as the three brothers passed.

Each gate to the next level was opened by the City Garrison on their surreal parade up the City. At each higher level the crowds grew thicker and the presence of the Citadel Guardsmen became more pronounced. At the sixth and highest level open to the public Citadel Guardsmen guided the brothers into the lamp-light avenue carved out of the mountain that lead to the Citadel on the seventh and final tier.

An entire legion of Citadel Guardsmen greeted the brothers at the Court of the Fountain. All their jaws dropped when they saw the Star of the North shinning bright on Elagor's helm. He looked just like the fresco of Elessar riding into the City that adorned main antechamber to the King's House.

The Guards at the doors to the King's House barred their way with pikes. The captain ordered the brothers to surrender their weapons. Elagor silently refused and pressed his mighty frame against the pikes of the Guards.  
"Your sword," Captain Herion again requested.

"Open this door to my house," Elagor said grimly and with authority.

"Your sword," Captain Herion repeated lamely. He was clearly frightened with indecision.

Elagor moved the pikes aside and pushed the doors open himself. Pelatur and Tinsereg followed him inside.

Mithrim sat upon the White Throne on a high dais, leaning to one side and smiling smugly. The King's Armor was to his right on the lowest level of the dais, the former site of the Stewards Chair. The Armor didn't fit Mithrim, so he had on his own. Esgaler stood in front of him as if to act as a shield to her son. Five hundred Citadel Guardsmen stood at either side, pikes and shields ready. Lord Commander Thorongil stood to Mithrim's left side-by-side with the armor, watching with anticipation and cold sweat.

"Welcome to the Citadel," Queen Mother Esgaler greeted them.

"We will hear your official surrender and pleadings for mercy now," continued Mithrim.

"The army upon the Pelennor has deserted you," Elagor said. "The Grand Matriarch Arwen Undómiel has named me High King. Remove yourselves from my Throne or be thrown down."

There were fitful mutterings in the upper balcony where the various courtiers gathered to watch. "You lie," Esgaler accused.

"I don't lie," Elagor responded. "I wear the Star of the North," he shouted out to the crowd, who then suddenly became aware of its radiant beauty atop Elagor's helm. "You are defeated."

Mithrim leaned forwarded worriedly. "Mother," he asked meekly.

The Queen Mother was visibly shaking. "SEIZE THEM," Esgaler shrieked.

The Citadel Guardsmen didn't move. Their gaze leaped from the Star on Elagor's brow and the Lord Commander. Thorongil remained silent. Captains Valacar and Tarciryan looked to their Commander, awaiting his orders.

Esgaler turned to Thorongil with a wild and spiteful eye.

"Lord Commander Thorongil," Elagor called out. "Arrest Esgaler and Mithrim."

Thorongil, again, refused to move. His steely exterior masked the internal emotional war raging within him. All eyes were upon him: the Court's, the City's, the West's, the whole of the world watched and wondered in frightful anticipation. He needed something wise to say. _Who to betray? Who to trust? Who to rule?_

Finally, he spoke. "My office forbids me from following any order until there is only one High King. This battle is between the two of you. The Citadel Guard will take no part."

"Arrest Elagor!" Captain Tarciryan shouted in defiance of the Lord Commander.

"Arrest the Queen Mother!" Captain Valacar shouted in response.

The Citadel Guardsmen on both sides leveled their pikes and readied their shields. The brothers drew their swords. Esgaler ran to the King's Door behind the Throne. Mithrim drew Andúril and leapt down from the Throne.

"Guard my back, brothers," Elagor whispered before charging towards Mithrim. "Here is the end," he shouted with blood, fire, and fury behind him. "Here stand the gates to hell!"

"STAND FAST!" Thorongil bellowed.

The Guards didn't impede Elagor's screaming charge. Mithrim quailed against the steps of the dais. He held out Andúril with desperate hope. Elagor had no choice but to strike at the sword instead of its master.

Nár impacted Andúril. In the blink of an eye, Andúril snapped. Elagor paused in the shock of what just happened, looking blankly at the broken sword in Mithrim's hand. Everyone did.

The broken tip clanked and rang as it danced its death throws on the elegant marble floor. Dread filled everyone in the Hall. A foundational relic of the Reunited Kingdom had just been destroyed.

Mithrim used those few seconds to fly away through the King's Door, dropping the hilt of Andúril as he left.

Elagor followed him. Pelatur stayed on Elagor's back. Tinsereg came up to Thorongil and paused. Looking at the man, he knew the Lord Commander would accept Elagor now. He turned and pointed towards the captain who'd called out against them. "Seize that man!"

Captain Tarciryan fought back. He wounded two Guardsmen before being smashed between four shields and forced to the ground.

"Where is Aldanna," asked Tinsereg in haste. "Where is my sister?"

"King's Bedchamber," Thorongil answered in submission.

Tinsereg ran through the King's Door.

His heart was racing. He had to get to Aldanna before anyone else. Tinsereg heard shouts and painful cries through the vaulted hallways. There were a few Citadel Guardsmen lying dead on the floor.

He reached the bedchamber doors but they were locked. Tinsereg tried prying the doors open with his sword, but failed. He then slammed his shoulder into them three times before the lock broke. There was Esgaler sitting limp in a chair by the Royal Bed. A vial filled with the remnants of an acrid smelling potion lay on the floor beneath her hand.

_Good riddance_, he thought.

There was coughing coming from the canopied bed.

Tinsereg pulled back the curtains to the bed… and dropped his sword. Aldanna lay there bathed in a cold sweat. She was breathing heavily and her eyes had lost their luster. He dropped to his knees and pleaded, "Aldanna, Aldanna, it's me. Sereg. It's me."

Aldanna's eyes focused on him. She smiled weakly. "I see you."

Tinsereg smiled reassuringly. "I've come to save you," he said.

"I know."

He then leaned in closer and his hands touched something strange. Out from beneath the covers he pulled out a scabbard and sword.

It was Andúril! The Flame of the West was safe! Tinsereg thought he'd seen it broken by Elagor's blade.

"He couldn't hold it," Aldanna said. "He couldn't. So his mother made him a replica to showcase to the Court and people."

"So it isn't broken after all," Tinsereg said, suddenly filled with a strong hope.

He heard a baby's cry from the other side of the bed. "Oh, God," he muttered.

Aldanna suddenly grabbed Tinsereg's arm and looked into him with all her strength. "Please, please Sereg," she pleaded. "Keep my son safe."

A horrifying sickness ran through Tinsereg. _Her son!_

"Please Sereg, please."

_What can I do?_ Tinsereg wondered if this was what Arwen was alluding to. _Am I destined to make crippling decisions, or do I just choose to?_ Tinsereg looked into his heart to find the right answer. "I will."

"Promise me, Sereg. Promise me."

"I promise."

Two Citadel Guardsmen came into the bedchamber. They saw him and advanced with swords.

Tinsereg looked down. Aldanna's strength was waning. He pulled Andúril from its scabbard cut the swords of the Guardsmen in half. Seeing what they were up against, the two Guardsmen wisely retreated.

He looked down at his hand and saw the sword of the Kings of Gondor in his grasp and was shaken by it. How could he have used the sword? It was the Sword of the Kings, and Tinsereg would be no king. Andúril suddenly became very heavy and difficult to hold.

The baby cried again.

Tinsereg then knew that he had to protect the baby, Aldanna's child. No matter what the circumstances of its birth, the baby itself was blameless. Elagor would surely have it killed to secure his rule, and Tinsereg couldn't allow that. He resolved himself to defend the child and Andúril then became much lighter.

He laid the sword by Aldanna's side and walked over to the crib on the other side of the bed. The baby looked healthy and normal enough. He picked it up and brought the infant over to its mother.

Aldanna was breathing very shallowly now. He went to both knees. "What is its name," he asked, cradling her head so she could look squarely at him and her son.

"Elendil," she whispered, then died.

Tinsereg folded. It was all too much. She had passed in his arms, slipped right through his fingers. _I should've gotten here sooner!_ Tinsereg was brought to tears, and openly cried for the first time since he was but a small child.

Elagor and Pelatur then appeared in the door. They were bursting with joy. "They reign of the Tyrant is over! Elagor is now High King!"

Tinsereg stood up slowly and turned around.  
"Is that a child," asked Pelatur.

"Is that my sword," Elagor asked.

Tinsereg nodded yes.

"Then give it here," Elagor said holding out his hand.

Tinsereg raised the sword and pointed it at his eldest brother. "You will not harm this child."

The tears welling up in his eyes told both Elagor and Pelatur saw that their brother was very serious about this infant. "It cannot be allowed to live," Pelatur said. "You know that."

"I will not take my rightful Throne on any conditions from you."

"It was Aldanna's last wish," Tinsereg said. The other brothers then tried to peer through the silken curtains of the Royal bed. "Yes, she's dead. Esgaler forced her to take poison, then took her own life." Tinsereg then threw the sword into the ground so it stuck up from the marble floor. "Take the Andúril and the Reunited Kingdom. I will take our nephew. The only condition will be from our sister, who's suffered enough this past year."

Elagor sheathed Nár and then pulled Andúril from the stone floor. He took a long, angry look at his brother before leaving.

--

The sun rose on the day of March 25th 303 FA. The Valar were looking down upon the Citadel of Minas Anor. Elagor strode out of the King's House to the waiting throngs. The cheers rose to the Heavens as he waved. His armor and sable mantle were immaculate, and he wore a second bivalved cloak of white swan feathers like wings that hung down from his shoulder pauldrons.

The whole of the Imperial Family followed Elagor out. His great-granduncles Elladan and Elrohir had forsaken Middle-earth now that their sister was gone and were currently traveling north to the Gray Havens. Elagor had wanted them to represent the Elves at his coronation, but would have to do without them. Lord Redbarad had secured the betrothal of his Amlóma to Crown Prince Barahir, so they came out to the veranda of the King's House.

Lord Commander Thorongil walked out carrying the crown of Elaldar from Rath Dínen. He placed it on a pillowed pedestal in front of Elagor and then backed up with his head bowed in respect.

Elagor lifted the crown with deliberate precision, holding it only with his fingertips. He raised it above his head and declared, "I, Elagor Elaldarsson of the House of Elessar Telcontar from the Sea, take this Winged Crown in the name of my father, the Dúnedain, and Ilúvatar!" He placed the Winged Crown upon his head and then displayed himself to the crowd.

Pelatur then stepped forward and shouted. "Men of Gondor! Behold Elagor the First, High King of the West, King of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, King of Ithilien, King of Rómenondor, King of Harondor and the Haven of Umbar, King of Khand, Captain of the Host of the West, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, Keeper of the Scepters of the West, North, East, and South, Guardian of the Western Scepter of Minas Anor, and Shield Against the Shadow!"

The people cheered and cheered and cheered. They waved talismans and good luck charms bought in the marketplaces bearing the likeness of the new High King. Rose pedals of red, pink, and white floated down from the top of the King's House onto the veranda. High King Elagor lowered his arms in the traditional gesture of command. The throng, Guardsmen, and his family behind him kneeled in subservience and obedience.

"Now begin the days of High King Elagor," Pelatur rose and announced after kissing Elagor's signet ring. "May they be blessed!"

Elagor then reverently returned the Crown back onto the pedestal and called for the prisoners.

Two Citadel Guardsmen dragged a beaten and bloody Mithrim to the front of the veranda to display to the crowd. "So long as I am King," Elagor shouted. "All traitors to the memory of Elessar, of Elendil and Númenor; those who have shunned Ilúvatar in their hearts, shall be punished without hesitation. I do this to preserve the dignity of House Telcontar, and to save my people from the festering corruption that they breed. I do it for all of you!"

The crowd roared.

Mithrim was then thrown down to his knees and hands.

"Mithrim," Elagor announced. "You are charged with pernicious treason and patricide against High King Elaldar and your shameful fornication with one of your own blood, specifically the High Queen Aldanna. For this, you are sentenced to death."

Andúril, Flame of the West, was unsheathed. With a wordless gasp from the crowd the head of Mithrim was shorn from its body and rolled down the steps, leaving a bloody trail behind it. Like a ball in a group of children the head of the former High King was picked up and passed through the air randomly and playfully throughout the crowd. Mithrim's blood stuck to the blade.

Tinsereg had to squint because the sun was shinning in his eyes. However, that was the point. The sun was shinning on them and their armor. Servants had polished their armor with oilskin so the glare off the plate kept the plebeians in the crowd from looking directly on the Imperial Family.

Tinsereg sighed to himself in shame and disappointment. _I have given the people a monster,_ he chided himself. _A monster they will love until the final day of the bitter end._ Guilt coursed through him, but he still held his head high as was expected of him. It had been his choice. Andúril had accepted him, he could have bent the whole of the West to his will, but he refused. Merely because he didn't want the power; didn't want the responsibility of the hard choices necessary to remain in power.

Harondor was different. Like Elagor here in Minas Anor, for Tinsereg the hard decisions were easy to make in Maeglad. He could order the execution of anyone without a second thought and with a clean conscience, but those he ordered slain were not of his own people. Elagor had no guilt killing his own, Tinsereg did. That was the real reason Tinsereg wanted Elagor on the White Throne instead of himself. Tinsereg had finally settled himself to that reality of his character.

There were other executions that day. The Supreme Cleric of the Valar, himself a cousin of Lord Linhir, was dragged out and Elagor loped off his head. The new Supreme Cleric received his bejeweled crown from Elagor, still slick with the blood of his predecessor. Several Citadel Guardsmen, including four Captains who had ordered his men to fight Elagor, were also killed. The prison warden, whom the imprisoned Arnorian lords had accused of cruel and unusual treatment for those of noble standing, was the last to die that day.

Even the body of Esgaler was brought forth and ritualistically beheaded. Then all the headless bodies were stripped naked, loaded onto a trebuchet on the bottom circle of the City, and launched out onto the Pelennor.

--

Elagor favored the single jewel Star of the North on its thin fillet Arwen had awarded him and wore it constantly in a ring of laurel leaves. He and his brothers walked into the Throne Hall of the White Tower of Ecthelion and Elagor sat in the White Throne for the first time as High King. Elagor settled in with a loud sigh of relief and gratification.

"Do you wish to see your subjects now," asked Lord Redbarad.

There were several matters for High King Elagor to weigh in on. There were, of course, several complaints and petitions to be presented concerning the new mill taxes. A new flame up in the feud between Lord Langstrand and Lord Dol Amroth had just occurred in the past few days; as well as several cases between peasants: about ten disputes over a cow, fifteen over pigs, and (interestingly enough) one man has accused his neighbor of stealing his house and removing it to the neighbor's property.

"No," Elagor said from on high. "There are other matters I wish to discuss at present."

Chairs were ordered in for the High King's three brothers.

"We wish to discuss the relocation of many of the people of Gondor," High King Elagor stated.

"Relocation," asked Tinsereg quizzically.

"I do not trust these core Gondorian lords," explained Elagor. "They formed the basis for Mithrim and Esgaler's power base. Therefore, I want them weakened. We need to repopulate Rómenondor, especially Rómendacilbar, if we are maintain it as a province of the Kingdom. Éohelm will press to have his people settle the East as soon as Rohan is healed. I want to ensure that it is still a Gondorian place before he has that chance. Pelatur, as Lord Governor of Rómenondor, you will coordinate this"

"Thank you, Your Majesty," asked Pelatur.

Elagor continued. "Tinsereg, we want an Imperial city built on the Harnen."

That surprised Sereg. He formed his mouth as if to ask _why_, but he knew better than to ask. Elagor got the point anyway. "We are troubled at the continued difficulties you are having. Therefore we will have an Imperial city—populated by Gondorians—built on the Harnen. You have been correct all along; cultural assimilation will subdue those indiginie subjects. So—we will take your advice on where the best location is to build."

What was really important about Elagor's statement was that there was no question that this was a good idea. It would happen and Elagor was being generous in giving Sereg a say in the affair.

Tinsereg bit his lip and thought for a moment. There really was only one possible location and Sereg knew it right away; he just wanted to hide this fact, and that he thought and made decisions very quickly. "It will have to be at the headwaters," he said.

"Why?"

"The river floods it banks every year, forcing all the old Southron dwellings to the edge of the desert. The only real fertile land in the whole area is along the river bank, so any urbanization of the area is out of the question. The river also isn't big enough for any of our ocean-going merchant vessels to sail up it."

"Is that a fact?"

"Does His Majesty doubt my council," Tinsereg asked.

This shocked Elagor, but mostly of all Pelatur. Never before had Sereg been so aggressive and strong willed in their presence.

"No, of course not," Elagor responded, and then moved on. "However, we want the Haradwaith put to heal. Several Gondorian legions will be put under your direct command as well as a few levies from Erech. You are to invest and conquer the whole of the Haradwaith for Ilúvatar and your King."

"Is that really necessary," Sereg had to ask. "They already pay a crushing tribute and we have wards and hostages from all the prominent tribal chieftains."

"But they are not under our direct authority," countered Elagor. "We will have the borders of the Reunited Kingdom extended to include them. You bring these chieftains to Minas Anor to bow before me and pledge their obedience. Naturally, the whole of the Haradwaith will be yours Tinsereg to rule and pacify."

"This is madness, Your Majesty," Tinsereg boldly declared. "My predecessor led such an expedition into the Haradwaith. It was a disaster. He and all his men were slaughtered."

"But he wasn't you," Elagor said, eerily calm at his brother's defiance. "Nor did he have your skill and Blood Royal flowing in his veins. Besides all he lost was himself and levies of peasants. The damage done was to the Kingdom's honor more than its power."

"We have no idea what the terrain is."

"Then map it for us," Elagor responded. "Use that Haradrim wife of yours for a good purpose for once."

Tinsereg was deeply insulted, but held his tongue. Then he figured something. "The Haradwaith is nothing: a few large caravans and scattered nomadic bands. There is no border—no territory there. What are you really after? What is your ultimate purpose in this?"

_Beyond your noble death_, Pelatur thought with a smile.

"On a few Númenorean maps there is mention of another river system southeast that leads to coast. I want that river secured for the Reunited Kingdom. From there we will expand south and build a harbor to spread our sea power to the Eastern Seas. I want an overland route and a road built to help secure it through the desert."

"The shifting sands will consume any road attempted," argued Tinsereg. "There are no roads, no paths, only the stars can be used for navigation. If Your Majesty wants a strong naval presence there the only way is through sea-power."

"Find a way," Elagor commanded and Tinsereg was forced to acquiesce. "There will also be a road built to the capital of Khand. Any heathen shrine will be torn down and Valar Temples built in their place."

Even this had Pelatur sitting up. "That will only lead to rebellion," Pel said.

"These heathens will worship Ilúvatar now."

Tinsereg and Pelatur exchanged a glance. Sereg spoke first. "Then securing a route to this river of yours will be impossible. Overland bandits will attack anyone going through the Haradwaith, no matter their numbers; and the harbor will be too far away for us to reinforce and be lost."

Pelatur went next. "The safe way is the slow way."

"What would you then suggest," asked Elagor mockingly.

"Missionaries," Pel answered right away. "Very cost efficient and just as effective."

Elagor thought this over, and then agreed. _At least he's still reachable_, Tinsereg thought. _That will change though._

"Now," Elagor ended the audience. "Be on your way in peace. Your input is important to me, brothers, and I thank you for it. But if you will excuse me, I have a funeral to plan."

Both bowed. Tinsereg then left but Pelatur lingered behind. "You've been planning this for a long time haven't you?"

Elagor smiled. "Ever since I was sixteen."

Pel laughed. "That sounds about right. Are you really going to let that bastard live with Tinsereg in Maeglad?"

"Sereg knows his limits. His wife on the other hand…" High King Elagor shrugged. "Harondor cannot survive without the rest of the Kingdom supporting them. If our brother forgets that, Maeglad will be razed to ground and him and his hunted like dogs in the alley."

Pelatur nodded approvingly.

"Oh, and Pel," Elagor remembered. "Your duties will require you in Rómendacilbar, but Arfëa and your son Artur are to stay here in Minas Anor."

Pel was shocked. "Why? Whatever for?"

"I wish them to learn the ways of the Court," answered Elagor. "But mostly because their presence here will keep Lord Túrin of Dol Amroth from causing trouble—and keep him from instigating others."

Pelatur still just stood there, looking at disbelief upon his brother like he didn't believe what he just heard.

"Go now," Elagor commanded and then exited through the King's Door behind the Throne.

--

The procession walked slowly through the gardens and malls of the Citadel, lamplight in the cool night. They came to the Closed Door that was opened and then down the winding way where gray statues to Gondor's lost mighty lined the walls. The Silent Street, Rath Dínen, then came into view.

The Houses of the Dead lined the street, capped by the massive House of the Stewards. The procession turned to the right to enter the last House of the Kings where the new Kings of the Fourth Age find their eternal rest.

The central hall was vaulted and cathedral-like where giant frescos of the scenes from the reign of Elessar were painted along the walls. This opened up into a vast rotunda where the moonlight came through the thirty meter oculus at the apex of the dome. The centerpiece of the rotunda was the glass coffin where the preternaturally preserved body of High King Elessar was on permanent display.

Folk legend says that as long as the Reunited Kingdom remains strong and pure, the body of Elessar will remain. Then, when the Kingdom forgets itself and the people live in fear and doubt, the body will rot and disappear, and Elessar will return to deliver his subjects from the tyranny of lesser men.

Aldanna was laid to rest in a red marble sarcophagus next to her father Elaldar as a Ruling Queen of the Reunited Kingdom. As a sign of respect and love for his sister Elagor didn't backdate his reign to his father's death so-as Aldanna could be remembered with the reverence she deserved in life.

The lid to Aldanna's tomb carried her likeness in white marble wearing a flowing and regal dress and a crown of gold upon her brow. Chairs were set up for the memorial and each and every member of the Imperial Family was given their moment to personally say goodbye at the kneel-stand placed in front of the sarcophagus.

Crown Prince Barahir led his new wife, Amlóma, up to the kneel-stand with him. Their wedding had been only a few days before and the newlyweds were preparing for their trip north to Annúminas where Barahir would take up his new duties as the next Lord of Arnor, as tradition dictated.

_If she gives birth within the next year_, Tinsereg could stop from wondering. _Would the father really be Crown Prince Barahir?_ He pushed all ignoble thoughts from his mind. This was not the place for them.

Pelatur, Arfëa and their son Artur were then next. Pel was still incensed that he would be leaving his wife and heir behind in Minas Anor, swallowed his pride and attended this solemn ceremony. Arfëa and Artur, on the contrary, couldn't be happier with their assignment to the Imperial Court of Minas Anor.

Tinsereg and his wife Arientari came after. _I hope you can forgive me for not saving you_, he said to the mental picture of her. _I didn't arrive in time, but I swear to you I will raise your son safe and well in my house._ Memories flooded over him. When they were children she'd taught him to read and write. They chased butterflies and lighting bugs in the gardens of the Citadel, and exploring the paths of Imperial retreat at Tolfalas. They'd pretend the island was Númenor and they were their Faithful ancestors hiding from the Citadel Guards—which were always the squads of persecuting King's Men hunting them down; and whenever there was a storm it was always _THE_ storm which had sunk the island three thousand years ago.

Then he got the image of Mithrim hanging around them like an unclaimed item. Tinsereg had never liked the stares he gave Aldanna but never could have guessed that Mithrim would do what he did, or that anyone would allow him. Forever now, Mithrim would be a cloud over the happy memories of his sister. He hoped Elagor would be able to clean up Gondor enough without doing too much damage.

Tinsereg kissed his fingers and then pressed them on the forehead of Aldanna's marble image. He couldn't linger here in his grief; he had a war to plan.

Elagor then approached the sarcophagus alone. He kneeled and bowed his head to pray for her safe journey. Although he would later fiercely deny it, Elagor did weep over her coffin.

--

Tinsereg lead his armies south down the Harad Road towards home. His mixed cavalry took the lead, followed by his oliphaunts, then the levies, and a strong rearguard of legions. The luckily unused siege towers made up the exact middle of his host.

The Gondorian legions High King Elagor had allocated to Sereg for his campaign marched south behind the cavalry. There were ten in all, nearly a hundred thousand men. All of whom will have to be trained to fight in the desert. Already he had ordered them to leave much of their armor behind. They would be issued the new, lighter armor the conditions demanded. He estimated that it would take two years to train the new legionnaires and manufacture enough armor to properly equip them. Tinsereg thought about all the food, steel, and other supplies that would need to be imported to keep this army on its feet. THAT would be a monumental task in its own right.

Tinsereg reminded himself again how much of a fool's crusade all this was.

Every now and then he would stop and inspect his column as it passed. One time he noticed a familiar face in the mixed cavalry. "Hourum," he called out the old mercenary.

"Agh," the old man exclaimed. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice and slip away."

"You remember our bet? You get no plunder from the City, you stop raiding my outposts."

Hourum was a Southron chieftain who never accepted Gondorian control. He was a bandit, raider, and outlaw. However, he now rode under Tinsereg's banner as a mercenary and could not be touched, and Hourum knew it.

Signing up as mercenaries was a common practice for Harondor native raiders, and Hourum was the most offending soul alive. The two of them had gotten to know each other on campaign, but Tinsereg could never get the old man to settle down.

"I do," Hourum admitted. "But I got this nice challis from a whore house." He held up his prize.

"That's theft, not plunder."

"Ah, but how can it really be theft when myself and my men have left so many little gifts with the ladies of your fair city."

Tinsereg laughed. "You know they take measures to keep themselves from getting pregnant."

"HA, nothing can stop the Southron seed from finding root."

"Why don't you stop this pillaging nonsense and join a caravan or start a village. You're too old for this."

"Well, I'd rather be raiding the villages than being raided."

"With your help I could make that not a large problem."

Hourum spit, then took a gulp of water from his horsehide bladder. "That's a real tempting offer, but I'm not ready to settle down just yet."

"Take care while you can," Tinsereg said, leading his horse farther down the line. "I may need your men in my host coming soon, so don't get caught."

"As long as there's money in it, I'll be there."

That night, he returned to his tent where his family waited for him. Little Elendil lay asleep in a cradle, Arientari busied herself gently rocking it.

"You're late," she said.

"My apologies. The camp took longer than I thought to order."

"Are we to stop at your favorite place by the lake again?"

Tinsereg didn't answer right away because he surprised himself with the answer that came to him. "No," he said finally. "There's nothing there for me to see."

Arientari looked down at the baby. "First Dín, and now Elendil. You're a sentimental one."

"Is that a bad thing," Tinsereg asked, removing his tunic.

"No," she answered. "Not unless it brings the wrath of the High King Elagor down upon you for harboring a potential rival for the crown for enemies to rally behind."

"Enemies rallying prove who they are. Elagor will know what to do with them then."

"What if that brings him here thinking you are one of those enemies?"

Tinsereg was tired of this plotting. "My brother needs me to make his war in the south. He won't do anything until all the Haradwaith is under his command."

"He won't fight you," Arientari countered. "But he might come after us in Maeglad while you are away."

"Elagor knows I will never stand for such an act." Tinsereg stopped undressing and kissed Iandil goodnight. "I don't like this war any more than you do. It will be long and hard and many will suffer."

"Mostly my people, I have no doubt."

This was fastly becoming a very awkward conversation. "I will not ask you to help me fight your own people in a fool's crusade."

"Then don't fight the fool's crusade."

Tinsereg knew exactly where this was leading. "There is no better alternative. No matter what happens, no matter what course events will take, a lot of people will die. The suffering of Men is unavoidable. Family—blood—matters more than most things. Family must remain family. You are my wife… aid me in my endeavors, or let me be."

Arientari took a deep breath. "So you're finally becoming a man. I will aid you, but only matters that I wish."

"Fair enough," said Tinsereg.

"Then first, let me caution you to beware," she said. "In the depths of the desert are where the spirits of my people reside and are at their strongest. Your God has no power there."

Personally, Tinsereg had no use for superstition, but he accepted Arientari's warning at face value. "There will be many preparations necessary here in Maeglad to make it more defensible," he said. "That will be your task."

"Defensible?"

"Yes," explained Tinsereg. "You are right about my brother. I don't completely trust him and I know he is capable of descending upon you while I am in the field. If this fight goes sour, you may also need those same measures to escape your own people."

Arientari looked down at the babe in the makeshift cradle. "Do you really intend to raise your sister's child as your own?"

"I do," Tinsereg said.

"Then you should know…"

"Know what?"

"I'm pregnant."

--

Elaldar's diary entries taken from poet Dylan Thomas.


	23. The Survivors

Excerpt from the Annals of the Imperial Family of Forth Age Gondor (circa FA 303):

**Elessar Telcontar** (TA Third Age 2931 - FA 120)

-his wife, **Arwen Undómiel** (TA 241 - FA 302)

-their son, **Eldarion** (FA 02 - 225)

-his wife, **Nenfel** (33 - 234)

-their son, **Elaldar** (130 - 300): poisoned by his second wife

-his first wife, **Losloth** (203 - 267): lost in the birth of her third son, fourth child

-their daughter, Princess **Aldanna** (256 - 302): poisoned by her stepmother

- their elder son, **Elagor andÚnËdacil** (257 - ): _the General_; _West Conqueror_; High King of the West, King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, King of Ithilien, King of Rómenondor, King of Harondor and the Haven of Umbar, King of Khand, Captain of the Host of the West, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, Keeper of the Scepters of the West, North, East, and South, Guardian of the Western Scepter of Minas Anor, Shield Against the Shadow (West)

-his wife, High Queen **Celebras** (253 - ): Lady of Fornost, High Queen of the West

-their son, **Turgor** (276 - 301): lost in Rómenondor

-their second son, Crown Prince **Barahir** (281 - ): Heir Apparent, Lord of Arnor, Guardian of the Northern Scepter of Annúminas, Shield of Gondor (North)

-his wife, High Princess **AMLÓMA** (279 - ): Lady of Hollin

-the King's younger brother, Prince **Pelatur** (263 - ): _the Griffin_; Lord Governor of Rómenondor, Guardian of the Eastern Scepter of Rómendacilbar, Shield of Gondor (East)

-his wife, Princess **Arfëa** (252 - ): Lady of Dol Amroth

-their son, Prince **Artur** (283 - )

-the King's youngest brother, Prince **Tinsereg** (267 - ): _Losloth's Bane_; Prince of Umbar, Lord of the Haven, High Captain of the Arsenal, Lord Governor of Harondor, Lord Governor of Khand, Guardian of the Southern Scepter of Bar-en-Umbar, Shield of Gondor (South)

-his wife, Princess **Arientari** (268 - ): woman of Harad, her Gondorian name

-their son, Prince **Iandil** (287 - )

-their ward, **ELENDIL** (301 - )

- **Esgaler** (225 - 302): the King's stepmother; poisoned herself

- **Mithrim** (277 - 303): the King's half-brother; executed by the High King


End file.
